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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


BY 

CHARLES DICKENS 

*• " ' 

o 

EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 

BY 

HUBER GRAY BUEHLER 

HEAD MA8TER 

AND 

LAWRENCE MASON 

* 

MASTER IN ENGLISH IN THE HOTCHKISS SCHOOL, LAKEVILLE, CONN. 


Ncto g0rk 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON : MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 

1906 


All rights reserved 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
TwoGooies Received 

APH 23 1906 

Copyright Entry 
UJ* 2 3./<?o(* 
CLASS a. XXC. No. 

/V-3 93 S’ 

COPY B. 



Copyright, 1906, 

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 


Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1906. 


CONTENTS 


Introduction 

I. Life of Dickens .... 

II. A Tale of Two Cities 

III. Topics for Exercises in Composition 


PAGE 

vii 

xi 

xvi 


A Tale of Two Cities 1 

Notes 403 































































































































INTRODUCTION 


I. LIFE OF DICKENS 

Childhood and Education (1812-1836). — Charles John 
Huffham Dickens was born in a small suburb of Portsea on 
Friday, February 7, 1812. He was the oldest son of John 
and Elizabeth Dickens, and the second of eight children. 
His mother taught him to read, and when the Dickens 
family moved to Chatham, in Kent, he attended school there 
for a few months. But his father, too poor and improvi- 
dent to educate his family properly, moved to London in 
1821, and there rapidly fared worse and worse in his business, 
and was driven from one wretched lodging in a squalid suburb 
to a still more wretched one, until he finally landed in the 
Marshalsea, a debtor’s prison. For two years Charles, now 
ten years old, lived from hand to mouth, earning a miserable 
pittance by pasting labels on blacking pots in a great ware- 
house. Sensitive and ambitious beyond his station or years, 
he felt so acutely the humiliation of this work and the hard- 
ships of this life that the scars from these sufferings remained 
with him as long as he lived. For years he could not refer 
to these experiences without shedding tears, and in his 
tramps about London later on, he always avoided the scenes 
of these hardships. Yet this bitter education in the streets 
of London gave him priceless literary capital in the oppor- 
tunities for the exercise of those marvellous powers of obser- 
vation which subsequently made him famous as the master- 
portrayer of lower- and middle-class life and character. He 
never ceased accumulating that wealth of incident and those 

vii 


Vlll 


INTRODUCTION 


studies in types and manners which make his pages so per- 
ennially rich in living human interest. 

About 1824 Dickens had two or three last years of school- 
ing at the Wellington House Academy. Next he spent a 
year and a half as clerk in a law office. Then he decided to 
follow his father's example and become a parliamentary 
reporter ; accordingly, he studied shorthand writing, and at 
the same time began the practice, which he kept up for several 
years, of spending all his spare time in reading omnivorously 
in the British Museum. From 1828 to 1836 he worked very 
hard as reporter for various London papers, and he himself 
ascribed most of his subsequent success as a novelist to this 
severe journalistic training. 

Early Novels (1834-1841). — In December, 1833, the 
Monthly Magazine printed Dickens's first public venture in 
the field of prose fiction — a humorous paper entitled Din- 
ner at Poplar Walk. More of these papers followed, and by 
the beginning of 1836 they were sufficiently numerous and 
successful to be collected and published in book form under 
their present title of Sketches by Boz. On the last day of 
March, 1836, appeared the first instalment of Pickwick Pa- 
pers, and Dickens's fame and fortune were at once secured. 
Three days afterward he married Catherine Hogarth. Then 
followed in rapid succession Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, 
various occasional essays and sketches, Old Curiosity Shop, 
and Barnaby Rudge. 

Foreign Travels (1841-1847). — In 1841 Dickens's life- 
long restlessness led him first to Edinburgh, where he re- 
ceived an overwhelming ovation, and then in the following 
January to America. Popular demonstrations of the most 
enthusiastic kind greeted him wherever he went in this coun- 
try; but nevertheless he took a great dislike to the nation, 
abundantly shown by the caustic satire on all things American 
in his next two publications, American Notes and Martin 
Chuzzlewit. The years from 1844 to 1847 were spent in 
Italy, Switzerland, and France, with a few brief visits to 
London interspersed. To this period also belong his Christ- 


INTRODUCTION 


IX 


mas books, Christmas Carol , Chimes, Cricket on the Hearth, 
etc., with Pictures from Italy and Dombey and Son. 

Later Novels (1848-1861). — Now followed the high tide 
of Dickens's literary productiveness. His matured genius 
and his conscientious study of his art had practically over- 
come his two greatest practical handicaps, — his intermittent 
method of production by instalments, and his lack of educa- 
tion. After writing numerous short pieces, he published, in 
1850, one of the greatest masterpieces of English prose fic- 
tion, David Copperfield. Then came Bleak House, Child’s 
History of England, Hard Times, Little Dorrit, Tale of Two 
Cities, Uncommercial Traveller, and Great Expectations. 

The summers of 1853, 1854, and 1856 Dickens spent abroad. 
In 1858 he and his wife, on account of complete incompati- 
bility of temperament, agreed upon an entirely amicable 
separation. The younger children remained in their father's 
care at his recently purchased house at Gadshill, near his 
boyhood's home in Chatham, Kent. In this year, also, he 
put into highly successful operation a plan which he had 
tried tentatively several years earlier, — giving public read- 
ings from his own works. 

Public Readings and Last Years (1861-1870). — From 
1860 to the end of his life Dickens was engaged in an almost 
uninterrupted series of public readings, and appeared in nearly 
every town of any size in the United Kingdom, with enor- 
mous popular and financial success. In the winter of 1867- 
1868 he gave his last American series : the country was taken 
by storm and about ninety thousand dollars was realized on 
eighty readings. But all these successes cost him dearly. 
His method was intensely dramatic, and the strain was so 
severe that positive exhaustion soon began to follow each per- 
formance. During the last few years, moreover, he suffered 
acutely from insomnia, his appetite failed, dizziness and faint- 
ness were common symptoms, and his strength could only 
be kept up by stimulants. He persevered in this fatal course 
of readings, not so much from greed for gain, though he had 
a natural desire to provide comfortably for his old age, as 


X 


INTRODUCTION 


from a restless craving for activity which continually 
haunted him. 

But sick as he certainly was, and busy as he was, Dickens’s 
pen was not idle in these years. Besides several slighter 
stories, such as the Holiday Romance , George Silverman’s Ex- 
planation, etc., and numerous magazine articles, he published 
in 1865 his last complete novel, Our Mutual Friend, which 
showed, in the opinion of many critics, a marked falling-off 
in his powers ; and he was engaged upon The Mystery of Edwin 
Drood when he died. His death, which was undoubtedly 
due to overwork, occurred in his home at Gadshill on 
Thursday, June 9, 1870. He was buried in Westminster 
Abbey. 

Personal Characteristics. — Dickens was an inveterate 
walker; wherever he might be, he invariably tramped all 
about the place, rain or shine, summer or winter, always 
keenly alert to new subjects for observation. When compos- 
ing he seemed to need to walk, especially in London by night ; 
and as a result there were few streets that he did not 
traverse more than once, and no man before or since has 
known his London so well. But some of his long winter 
walks caused the serious disorders in his left foot and hand 
and his head, which certainly hastened the end. 

Another peculiarity of Dickens was his intense histrionic 
interest — almost the strongest passion of his life. In fact, 
only an accident made him a novelist instead of an actor : 
for at the age of eighteen Dickens sought an engagement at 
Covent Garden Theatre ; illness caused him to miss his inter- 
view with the manager, who was strongly prepossessed in his 
favor, and before the next theatrical season opened he was 
launched in his journalistic career. But he patronized plays 
and players all his life, was continually active in amateur 
theatricals, where he was preeminent for versatility and 
skill, and wrote at various times nearly a dozen plays. His 
public readings and most of his novels clearly show his dra- 
matic feeling and powers. 

Dickens was a devoted father, the light and life of his 


INTRODUCTION 


xi 


home, and a very ardent participator in a few intimate friend- 
ships. Among his closest friends were the cartoonist John 
Leech, Judge Talfourd, the poet Landor, the painters Mac- 
lise and Stanfield, the great actor Macready, Thackeray, 
Carlyle, and John Forster, his biographer and literary 
executor. 

Dr. Jowett said, at Dickens’s funeral, that “no one was 
ever so much beloved or so much mourned.” Carlyle char- 
acterized him as “a most cordial, sincere, clear-sighted, 
quietly decisive, just and loving man,” and said of his death : 
“It is an event world-wide; a unique of talents suddenly 
extinct; and has ‘eclipsed/ we too may say, ‘the harmless 
gayety of nations.’ The good, the gentle, high-gifted, ever- 
friendly, noble Dickens, — every inch of him an Honest 
Man.” 


II. A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

Dickens’s Method. — Dickens wrote practically all of his 
novels in weekly or monthly instalments for magazine publi- 
cation. The consequent necessity for making each instal- 
ment more or less complete in itself, accounts for the lack of 
smoothness in the progress of his narratives and for his errors 
of construction and the weakness of his plots. Furthermore, 
he was usually engaged upon two novels at once ; and since 
he never completed a novel before beginning its serial pub- 
lication, but always relied upon himself to produce each in- 
stalment offhand as it became due, is it altogether wonderful 
that his style shows lack of polish, and his workmanship signs 
of haste? 

A Tale of Two Cities is almost unique in Dickens’s work. 
It was his second and last effort, in the field of the historical 
novel. The mechanics of its style and construction are freer 
than usual from the faults mentioned in the preceding para- 
graph. It is less than half as long as his other great novels, 
has far fewer characters, and, above all, entirely lacks the 
element of real humor so predominant in the others — for 


Xll 


INTRODUCTION 


one cannot laugh fary heartily or very often at Jerry and Miss 
Pross. In most of his other novels the plot is almost a neg- 
ligible quantity, while the interest centres wholly in the humor 
or pathos of character ; “he has contrived, ” as Paine says, 
“amusing phantasmagoria, ” '“ adventures, memoirs, sketches, 
collections of scenes,” but not “an action.” In A Tale of 
Two Cities, on the contrary, the plot is the primary interest 
and the emphasis is deliberately placed on action; Dickens 
himself said of it: “I set myself the little task of making a 
picturesque story, rising in every chapter with characters 
true to nature, but whom the story itself should express, 
more than they should express themselves, by dialogue. 
I mean, in other words, that I have fancied a story of inci- 
dent might be written, in place of the bestiality that is 
written under that pretence, pounding the characters out in 
its own mortar, and beating their own interests out of them.” 
In general, the other novels are diffuse and disjointed, — 
characteristics traceable, doubtless, to the magazine “penny- 
a-line” system of payment and to the necessary repetitions 
incidental to serial publication. Paine said: “He began 
with essays, and his large novels are only essays tagged 
together.” But A Tale of Two Cities is painstakingly 
condensed, as his letters during its laborious composition 
show, and very skilfully constructed; Ward called it an 
example of “the French art of telling a story succinctly.” 
Dickens once referred to it as “the best story he had 
written.” 

A Tale of Two Cities. — Before settling upon its present 
title Dickens had considered calling the story One of these 
Days, Buried Alive, ^ The Thread of Gold, and The Doctor of 
Beauvais. His original Preface says of its inception: “When 
I was acting, with my children and friends, in Mr. Wilkie Col- 
lins’s drama of The Frozen Deep, I first conceived the main 
idea of this story. ... As the idea became familiar to me, 
it gradually shaped itself into its present form. Throughout 
its execution it has had complete possession of me ; I have so 
far verified what is done and suffered in these pages, as that 


INTRODUCTION 


Xlll 


I have certainly done and suffered it all myself. Whenever 
any reference (however slight) is made here to the condition 
of the French people before or during the Revolution, it is 
truly made on the faith of the most trustworthy witnesses. 
It has been one of my hopes to add something to the popular 
and picturesque means of understanding that terrible time, 
though no one can hope to add anything to the philosophy 
of Mr. Carlyle’s wonderful book.” Some purpose further 
than this, some moral teaching, should be sought by the stu- 
dent; for Dickens wrote each novel with some great ethical 
lesson to impart. 

In general, too little is made of Carlyle’s influence upon the 
writing of this book. One incident shows clearly enough 
the source of Dickens’s historical information. Charles Dick- 
ens the younger writes: “While engaged in the prelim- 
inary work on the Tale of Two Cities, my father asked 
Carlyle for the loan of a few such authorities as might be 
useful for his purpose, and promptly received from the his- 
torian of the French Revolution two cart-loads of books!” 
Moreover, he adopted Carlyle’s theory of the Revolution ; and 
surely the opening paragraph and the descriptions of Saint 
Antoine are strongly reminiscent of Carlyle’s method, while 
the verbless sentences, the compound words, and the harsh 
locutions more than suggest Carlyle’s manner. 

As A Tale of Two Cities could hardly have been written, 
at least in its present form, without the influence of Carlyle, 
so also it could hardly have been thus written by any one 
lacking Dickens’s keen interest in the stage. In fact, while 
he was still writing the story he corresponded with the great 
French actor Regnier about a French performance of a dram- 
atization of the story. There have been several English 
dramatizations, of which the first was Tom Taylor’s produc- 
tion in 1860, superintended by Dickens himself, and the last 
Henry Miller’s admirable version, entitled The Only Way, 
produced in this country a few years ago. The great success 
of these two versions, and of most of the others, sufficiently 
vindicates the high dramatic qualities of the novel. 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION 


Study of Dickens's Style. — Professor J. S. Clark, in his 
excellent Study of English Prose Writers, distinguishes the 
following eleven particular characteristics of Dickens’s style ; 
a valuable exercise for the student would be the finding of 
specific illustrations, in A Tale of Two Cities, of each one of 
these characteristics: 1. Fondness for Caricature — Exag- 
geration, Grotesqueness. 2. Genial Humor. 3. Incarnation 
of Characteristics — Single Strokes. 4. Descriptive Power 
— Minuteness of Observation, Vividness. 5. Tender, some- 
times Mawkish, Pathos. 6. Gayety — Animal Spirits, Good 
Fellowship. 7. Sincerity — Manliness, Earnestness. 8. Broad 
Sympathy — Plain, Practical Humanity. 9. Dramatic Power. 
10. Vulgarity — Artificiality. 11. Diffuseness. 

Standard Criticisms of A Tale of Two Cities. — George 
Saintsbury said, in his History of XIXth Century Literature: 
“The Tale of Two Cities has been more differently judged 
than any other of his works; some extolling it as a great 
romance, if not quite a great historical novel, while others 
see it in little more than mixed mannerism and melodrama.” 
The consensus of critical opinion now seems to favor the first 
of these estimates, as the following quotations will show : — 


“The general edifice of the plot is solid; its interest is, 
notwithstanding the crowded background, concentrated 
with much skill upon a small group of personages; and 
Carton’s self-sacrifice, admirably prepared from the very 
first, produces a legitimate tragic effect. . . . Altogether, 
the book is an extraordinary tour de force, which Dickens 
never repeated.” 

— A. W. Ward. 


“With singular dramatic vivacity, much constructive 
art, and with descriptive passages of a high order everywhere, 
. . . there was probably never a book by a great humorist, 
and an artist so prolific in the conception of character, with 
so little humor and so few rememberable figures. Its merits 


INTRODUCTION 


XV 


lie elsewhere. ... I should myself prefer to say that its 
distinctive merit is less in any of its conceptions of character, 
even Carton’s, than as a specimen of Dickens’s power in 
imaginative story telling. ... To the end, the book in 
this respect is really remarkable.” 

— John Forster. 

“The best novel, surely, like the best play, is that in which 
inner character and outward action are developed simul- 
taneously; in which the growth of mind and heart and will 
are expressed through tangible and striking scenes. In 
this respect Vanity Fair and A Tale of Two Cities and Adam 
Bede and Pan Michael — to choose stories of very different 
types — accomplish what Shakespeare accomplished in Mac- 
beth. They allow us to watch the growth or the decay of 
a soul even while we are fascinated by a spectacle.” 

— Bliss Perry. 

“Its portrayal of the noble-natured castaway makes it 
almost a peerless book in modern literature, and gives it a 
place among the highest examples of literary art. . . . The 
conception of this character shows in its author an ideal of 
magnanimity and of charity unsurpassed. There is not a 
grander, lovelier figure than the self-wrecked, self-devoted 
Sydney Carton, in literature or history ; and the story itself 
is so noble in its spirit, so grand and graphic in its style, 
and filled with a pathos so profound and simple, that it de- 
serves and will surely take a place among the great serious 
works of imagination.” 


— Grant White. 


XY1 


INTRODUCTION 


III. TOPICS FOR EXERCISES IN COMPOSITION 

1. A Simple Paraphrase of one or more paragraphs in 
Chapter I. 

2. The Old-fashioned Stage Coach. 

3. Travelling in 1775. 

4. Mr. Lorry's Journey from London to Paris, as described 
by Himself. 

5. The Suburb of St. Antoine. 

6. The Wine Shop of Monsieur Defarge. 

7. The Shoemaker. 

8. Tellson's Bank. 

9. Mr. Cruncher at Home. 

10. In the Court Room at the Old Bailey. 

11. The Trial of Darnay for Treason. 

12. Miss Pross. 

13. The Home in Soho Square. 

14. Social Conditions in France in 1775. 

15. The Accident to the Peasant Child, as described by a 
Bystander. 

16. Monseigneur at Home. 

17. The Murder at the Chateau. 

18. Mr. Stryver. 

19. Mr. Jerry Cruncher. 

20. Charles Darnay. 

21. Lucie Manette. 

22. Dr. Manette. 

23. The Storming of the Bastille. 

24. The Punishment of Foulon. 

25. Revolution in the Country. 

26. How Darnay returned to Paris. 

27. The Grindstone. 

28. The September Massacres. 

29. The Reign of Terror. 

30. The Wood-sawyer. 

31. The Carmagnole. 


BOOK THE FIRST 

RECALLED TO LIFE 


CHAPTER I 

THE PERIOD 

It° was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was 
the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was 
the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the 
season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the 
spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had every- 
thing before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going 
direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way — 
in short, the period was so far like the present period, that 
some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, 
for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison 
only. 

There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a 
plain face, on the throne of England ; there were a king with 
a large jaw and a queen with a fair face, on the throne of 
France . 0 In both countries it was clearer than crystal to 
the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that 
things in general were settled for ever. 

It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred 
and seventy-five. Spiritual revelations were conceded to 
England at that favoured period, as at this. Mrs. South- 
cott° had recently attained her five-and-twentieth blessed 
birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards 
had heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that 


4 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


arrangements were made for the swallowing up of London 
and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane ghost 0 had been laid 
only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its messages, 
as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally defi- 
cient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in 
the earthly order of events had lately come to the English 
Crown and People, from a congress of British subjects in 
America: which, strange to relate, have proved more im- 
portant to the human race than any communications yet 
received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane brood. 

France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual 
than her sister of the shield and trident , 0 rolled with exceed- 
ing smoothness down hill, making paper money and spend- 
ing it. Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she 
entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements 
as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue 
torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because 
he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty 
procession of monks which passed within his view, at a 
distance of some fifty or sixty yards . 0 It is likely enough 
that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were 
growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already 
marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn 
into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a 
sack and a knife in it, terrible in history . 0 It is likely enough 
that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy 
lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the weather 
that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, 
snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the 
Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils 
of the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, 
though they work unceasingly, work silently, and no one 
heard them as they went about with muffled tread : the 
rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they 
were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous. 

In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and 
protection to justify milch national boa.st.iner. Dariner burer- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


5 


laries by armed men, and highway robberies, took place in 
the capital itself every night ; families were publicly cautioned 
not to go out of town without removing their furniture to 
upholsterers’ warehouses for security; the highwayman in 
the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recog- 
nised and challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he 
stopped in his character of “the Captain,” gallantly shot 
him through the head and rode away; the mail was way- 
laid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and 
then got shot dead himself by the other four, “ in consequence 
of the failure of his ammunition after which the mail was 
robbed in peace ; that magnificent potentate, the Lord 
Mayor of London, was made to stand and deliver on Turn- 
ham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the illus- 
trious creature in sight of all his retinue ; prisoners in London 
gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty 
of the law fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with 
rounds of shot and ball ; thieves snipped off diamond crosses 
from the necks of noble lords at Court drawing-rooms ; 
musketeers went into St. Giles’s , 0 to search for contraband 
goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the mus- 
keteers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these 
occurrences much out of the common way. In the midst 
of them, the hangman, ever busy and ever worse than use- 
less, was in constant requisition; now, stringing up long 
rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a house- 
breaker on Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday ; now, 
burning people in the hand at Newgate by the dozen, and 
now burning pamphlets at the door of Westminster Hall; 
to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer, and to- 
morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer’s 
boy of sixpence. 

All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass 
in' and close upon the dear old year one thousand seven 
hundred and seventy-five. Environed by them, while the 
Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded, those two of 
the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the fair 


6 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights 
with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven 
hundred and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and 
myriads of small creatures — the creatures of this chronicle 
among the rest — along the roads that lay before them. 


CHAPTER II 

THE MAIL 

It was the Dover road that lay, on a. Friday night late in 
November, before the first of the persons with whom this 
history has business. The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond 
the Dover mail, as it lumbered up Shooter’s Hill.° He 
walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail, as the 
rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least 
relish for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but 
because the hill, and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, 
were all so heavy, that the horses had three times already 
come to a stop, besides once drawing the coach across the 
road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back to Black- 
heath . 0 Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, 
in combination, had read that article of war which forbade 
a purpose otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, 
that some brute animals are endued with Reason; and the 
team had capitulated and returned to their duty. 

With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed 
their way through the thick mud, floundering and stumbling 
between whiles, as if they were falling to pieces at the larger 
joints. As often as the driver rested them and brought 
them to a stand, with a wary “Wo-ho! so-ho-then!” the 
near leader violently shook his head and everything upon 
it — like an unusually emphatic horse, denying that the 
coach could be got up the hill. Whenever the leader made 
this rattle, the passenger started, as a nervous passenger 
might, and was disturbed in mind. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


7 


There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had 
roamed in its forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seek- 
ing rest and finding none. A clammy and intensely cold 
mist, it made its slow way through the air in ripples that 
visibly followed and overspread one another, as the waves 
of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to 
shut out everything from the light of the coach-lamps but 
these its own workings, and a few yards of road; and the 
reek of the labouring horses steamed into it, as if they had 
made it all. 

Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up 
the hill by the side of the mail. All three were wrapped 
to the cheek-bones and over the ears, and wore jack-boots. 
Not one of the three could have said, from anything he saw, 
what either of the other two was like ; and each was hidden 
under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, 
as from the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In 
those days, travellers were very shy of being confidential 
on a short notice, for anybody on the road might be a robber 
or in league with robbers. As to the latter, when every post- 
ing-house and ale-house could produce somebody in “the 
Captain's” pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest 
stable nondescript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. 
So the guard of the Dover mail thought to himself, that 
Friday night in November, one thousand seven hundred and 
seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as he stood on his 
own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet, and 
keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, 
where a loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight 
loaded horse-pistols, deposited on a substratum of cutlass. 

The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the 
guard suspected the passengers, the passengers suspected 
one another and the guard, they all suspected everybody 
else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but the horses; 
as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have taken 
his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the 
journey. 


8 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“Wo-ho!” said the coachman. “So, then! One more 
pull and you’re at the top and be damned to you, for I have 
had trouble enough to get you to it ! — Joe ! ” 

“Halloa!” the guard replied. 

“What o’clock do you make it, Joe?” 

“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.” 

“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not 
atop of Shooter’s yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!” 

The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most de- 
cided negative, made a decided scramble for it, and the three 
other horses followed suit. Once more, the Dover mail 
struggled on, with the jack-boots of its passengers squashing 
along by its side. They had stopped when the coach stopped, 
and they kept close company with it. If any one of the 
three had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk 
on a little ahead into the mist and darkness, he would have 
put himself in a fair way of getting shot instantly as a high- 
wayman. 

The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. 
The horses stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down 
to skid the wheel for the descent, and open the coach-door 
to let the passengers in. 

“Tst! Joe!” cried the coachman in a warning voice, 
looking down from his box. 

“What do you say, Tom?” 

They both listened. 

“I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.” 

“I say a horse at a gallop, Tom,” returned the guard, 
leaving his hold of the door, and mounting nimbly to his 
place. “Gentlemen! In the king’s name, all of you!”° 

With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, 
and stood on the offensive. 

The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach- 
step, getting in ; the two other passengers were close behind 
him, and about to follow. He remained on the step, half in 
the coach and half out of ; they remained in the road below 
him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard, 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


9 


and from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The 
coachman looked back and the guard looked back, and even 
the emphatic leader pricked up his ears and looked back, 
without contradicting. 

The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling 
and labouring of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, 
made it very quiet indeed. The panting of the horses com- 
municated a tremulous motion to the coach, as if it were in a 
state of agitation. The hearts of the passengers beat loud 
enough perhaps to be heard ; but at any rate, the quiet pause 
was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding 
the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation. 

The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously 
up the hill. 

“So-ho!” the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. 
“Yo there! Stand! I shall fire!” 

The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing 
and floundering, a man’s voice called from the mist, “Is that 
the Dover mail?” 

“ Never you mind what it is ! ” the guard retorted. “ What 
are you?” 

“Is that the Dover mail?” 

“Why do you want to know?” 

“I want a passenger, if it is.” 

“ What passenger ? ” 

“Mr. Jarvis Lorry.” 

Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his 
name. The guard, the coachman, and the two other passen- 
gers eyed him distrustfully. 

“Keep where you are,” the guard called to the voice in the 
mist, “because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be 
set right in your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry 
answer straight.” 

“What is the matter?” asked the passenger, then, with 
mildly quavering speech. “Who wants me? Is it Jerry?” 

(“ I don’t like Jerry’s voice, if it is Jerry,” growled the guard 
to himself. “He’s hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.”) 


10 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“Yes, Mr. Lorry.” 

“What is the matter?” 

“A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.” 

“I know this messenger, guard,” said Mr. Lorry, getting 
down into the road — assisted from behind more swiftly 
than politely by the other two passengers, who immedi- 
ately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and pulled 
up the window. “He may come close; there’s nothing 
wrong.” 

“I hope there ain’t, but I can’t make so ’Nation sure of 
that,” said the guard, in gruff soliloquy. “Hallo you!” 

“Well! And hallo you!” said Jerry, more hoarsely than 
before. 

“ Come on at a footpace ! d’ye mind me ? And if you’ve 
got holsters to that saddle o’ yourn, don’t let me see your 
hand go nigh ’em. For I’m a devil at a quick mistake, and 
when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So now let’s 
look at you.” 

The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the 
eddying mist, and came to the side of the mail, where the pas- 
senger stood. The rider stooped, and, casting up his eyes 
at the guard, handed the passenger a small folded paper. 
The rider’s horse was blown, and both horse and rider were 
covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of 
the man. 

“Guard!” said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business 
confidence. 

The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his 
raised blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the 
horseman, answered curtly, “Sir.” 

“There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson’s 
Bank. You must know Tellson’s Bank in London. I am 
going to Paris on business. A crown to drink. I may 
read this?” 

“If so be as you’re quick, sir.” 

He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, 
and read — first to himself cand then aloud : “ ‘ Wait at Dover 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


11 


for Mam'selle.' It’s not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say 
that my answer was, recalled to life.” 

Jerry started in his saddle. “That's a Blazing strange 
answer, too,” said he, at his hoarsest. 

“Take that message back, and they will know that I 
received this, as well as if I wrote. Make the best of your 
way. Good night.” 

With those words the passenger opened the coach-door 
and got in ; not at all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who 
had expeditiously secreted their watches and purses in their 
boots, and were now making a general pretence of being 
asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape the 
hazard of originating any other kind of action. 

The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of 
mist closing round it as it began the descent. The guard 
soon replaced his blunderbuss in his arm-chest, and, having 
looked to the rest of its contents, and having looked to the 
supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt, looked to a 
smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a few 
smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he 
was furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps 
had been blown and stormed out, which did occasionally 
happen, he had only to shut himself up inside, keep the flint 
and steel sparks well off the straw, and get a light with tol- 
erable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in five minutes. 

“Tom !” softly over the coach roof. 

“Hallo, Joe.” 

“Did you hear the message?” 

“I did, Joe.” 

“What did you make of it, Tom?” 

“Nothing at all, Joe.” 

“That's a coincidence, too,” the guard mused, “for I 
made the same of it myself.” 

Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted 
meanwhile, not only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the 
mud from his face, and shake the wet out of his hat-brim, 
which might be capable of holding about half a gallon. After 


12 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


standing with the bridle over his heavily-splashed arm, until 
the wheels of the mail were no longer within hearing and the 
night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the hill. 

“After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I 
won’t trust your fore-legs till I get you on the level,” said this 
hoarse messenger, glancing at his mare. “‘Recalled to life.’ 
That’s a Blazing strange message. Much of that wouldn’t 
do for you, Jerry ! I say, Jerry ! You’d be in a Blazing bad 
way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion, Jerry!” 0 


CHAPTER III 

THE NIGHT SHADOWS 

A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human 
creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery 
to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a 
great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered 
houses encloses its own secret ; that every room in every one 
of them encloses its own secret ; that every beating heart in 
the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its 
imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it ! Something of 
the awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. 
No more can I turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, 
and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I look 
into the depths of this unfathomable water, wherein, as mo- 
mentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses of buried 
treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that 
the book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, 
when I had read but a page. It was appointed that the water 
should be locked in an eternal frost, when the light was play- 
ing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore. My 
friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling 
of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and 
perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individ- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


13 


uality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life’s end. In 
any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is 
there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants 
are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to 
them ? 

As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, 
the messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions 
as the King, the first Minister of State, or the richest merchant 
in London. So with the three passengers shut up in the nar- 
row compass of one lumbering old mail-coach; they were 
mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had been in 
his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the 
breadth of a county between him and the next. 

The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty 
often at ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a ten- 
dency to keep his own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked 
over his eyes. He had eyes that assorted very well with that 
decoration, being of a surface black, with no depth in the 
colour or form, and much too near together — as if they were 
afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept 
too far apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old 
cocked-hat like a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great 
muffler for the chin and throat, which descended nearly to 
the wearer’s knees. When he stopped for drink, he moved 
this muffler with his left hand, only while he poured his liquor 
in with his right ; as soon as that was done, he muffled again. 

“ No, Jerry, no ! ” said the messenger, harping on one theme 
as he rode. “It wouldn’t do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you 
honest tradesman, it wouldn’t suit your line of business ! 
Recalled — ! Bust me if I don’t think he’d been a drinking ! ” 

His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was 
fain, several times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. 
Except on the crown, which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, 
black hair, standing jaggedly all over it, and growing down 
hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was so like Smith’s 
work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked wall 
than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog 


id 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


might have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the 
world to go over. 

While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver 
to the night watchman in his box at the door of Tellson’s 
Bank, by Temple Bar, who was to deliver it to greater au- 
thorities within, the shadows of the night took such shapes 
to him as arose out of the message, and took such shapes to 
the mare as arose out of her private topics of uneasiness. They 
seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the 
road. 

What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and 
bumped upon its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscru- 
tables inside. To whom, likewise, the shadows of the night 
revealed themselves, in the forms their dozing eyes and wan- 
dering thoughts suggested. 

Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank 
passenger — with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, 
which did what lay in it to keep him from pounding against the 
next passenger, and driving him into his corner, whenever the 
coach got a special jolt — nodded in his place, with half-shut 
eyes, the little coach- windows, and the coach-lamp dimly 
gleaming through them, and the bulky bundle of opposite 
passenger, became the bank, and did a great stroke of busi- 
ness. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money, 
and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even 
Tellson’s, with all its foreign and home connection, ever paid 
in thrice the time. Then the* strong-rooms underground, 
at Tellson’s, with such of their valuable stores and secrets 
as were known to the passenger (and it was not a little that 
he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in 
among them with the great keys and the feebly-burning 
candle, and found them safe, and strong, and sound, and still, 
just as he had last seen them. 

But, though the bank was almost always with him, and 
though the coach (in a confused way, like the presence of 
pain under an opiate) was always with him, there was another 
current of impression that never ceased to run, all through 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


15 


the night. He was on his way to dig some one out of a 
grave. 

Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves 
before him was the true face of the buried person, the shadows 
of the night did not indicate; but they were all the faces of 
a man of five-and-forty by years, and they differed princi- 
pally in the passions they expressed, and in the ghastliness 
of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt, defiance, 
stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another ; 
so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, ema- 
ciated hands and figures. But the face was in the main one 
face, and every head was prematurely white. A hundred 
times the dozing passenger inquired of this spectre : 

“ Buried how long ? ” 

The answer was always the same: “Almost eighteen 
years.” 

“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?” 

“Long ago.” 

“You know that you are recalled to life?” 

“They tell me so.” 

tJ I hope you care to live?” 

“I can’t say.” 

“Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?” 

The answers to this question were various and contra- 
dictory. Sometimes the broken reply was, “Wait! It 
would kill me if I saw her too soon.” Sometimes, it was given 
in a tender rain of tears, and then it was, “Take me to her.” 
Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it was, 
“I don’t know her. I don’t understand.” 

After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy 
would dig, and dig, dig — now with a spade, now with a 
great key, now with his hands — to dig this wretched crea- 
ture out. Got out at last, with earth hanging about his face 
and hair, he would suddenly fall away to dust. The passen- 
ger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get 
the reality of mist and rain on his cheek. 

Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, 


16 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


on the moving patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge 
at the roadside retreating by jerks, the night shadows outside 
the coach would fall into the train of the night shadows within. 
The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the real business 
of the past day, the real strong-rooms, the real express sent 
after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. 
Out of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he 
would accost it again. 

“Buried how long?” 

“Almost eighteen years.” 

“I hope you care to live?” 

“I can’t say.” 

Dig — dig — dig — until an impatient movement from 
one of the two passengers would admonish him to pull up the 
window, draw his arm securely through the leathern strap, 
and speculate upon the two slumbering forms, until his mind 
lost its hold of them, and they again slid away into the bank 
and the grave. 

“ Buried how long?” 

“Almost eighteen years.” 

“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?” 

“Long ago.” 

The words were still in his hearing as just spoken — dis- 
tinctly in his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his 
life — when the weary passenger started to the consciousness 
of daylight, and found that the shadows of the night were 
gone. 

He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. 
There was a ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it 
where it had been left last night when the horses were un- 
yoked ; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood, in which many leaves 
of burning red and golden yellow still remained upon the 
trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was 
clear, and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful. 

“Eighteen years!” said the passenger, looking at the sun. 
“ Gracious Creator of day ! To be buried alive for eighteen 
years !” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


17 


CHAPTER IV 

THE PREPARATION 

When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of 
the forenoon, the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel 
opened the coach-door as his custom was. He did it with some 
flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey from London in 
winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous 
traveller upon. 

By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller 
left to be congratulated : for the two others had been set 
down at their respective roadside destinations. The mildewy 
inside of the coach, with its damp and dirty straw, its dis- 
agreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather like a larger 
dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out 
of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flap- 
ping hat, and muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of 
dog. 

“ There will be a packet to Calais, to-morrow, drawer?” 

“Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable 
fair. The tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the 
afternoon, sir. Bed, sir?” 

“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, 
and a barber.” 

“And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if 
you please. Show Concord ! 0 Gentleman’s valise and hot 
water to Concord. Pull off gentleman’s boots in Concord. 
(You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.) Fetch barber to Con- 
cord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!” 

The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a pas- 
senger by the mail, and passengers by the mail being always 
heavily wrapped up from head to foot, the room had the odd 
interest for the establishment of the Royal George, that 
although but one kind of man was seen to go into it, all 
kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, 


18 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


another drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the 
landlady, were all loitering by accident at various points of 
the road between the Concord and the coffee-room, when a 
gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a brown suit of clothes, 
pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large square cuffs 
and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to his 
breakfast. 

The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than 
the gentleman in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn 
before the fire, and as he sat, with its light shining on him, 
waiting for the meal, he sat so still, that he might have been 
sitting for his portrait. 

Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each 
knee, and a loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his 
flapped waistcoat, as though it pitted its gravity and longevity 
against the levity and evanescence of the brisk fire. He had 
a good leg, and was a little vain of it, for his brown stockings 
fitted sleek and close, and were of a fine texture; his shoes 
and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He wore an odd 
little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his head : 
which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which 
looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk 
or glass. His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance 
with his stockings, was as white as the tops of the waves 
that broke upon the neighbouring beach, or the specks of sail 
that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A face habitually sup- 
pressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the quaint wig 
by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost their 
owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed 
and reserved expression of Tellson’s Bank. He had a healthy 
colour in his cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces 
of anxiety. But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks 
in Tellson’s Bank were principally occupied with the cares 
of other people ; and perhaps second-hand cares, like second- 
hand clothes, come easily off and on. 

Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for 
his portrait, Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


19 


his breakfast roused him, and he said to the drawer, as he 
moved his chair to it: 

“I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who 
may come here at any time to-day. She may ask for Mr. 
Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a gentleman from Tell- 
son 's Bank. Please to let me know.” 

“Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain 
your gentlemen in their travelling backwards and forwards 
betwixt London and Paris, sir. A vast deal of travelling, 
sir, in Tellson and Company's House.” 

“Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English 
one.” 

“Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling your- 
self, I think, sir ? ” 

“Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we — since I 
— came last from France.” 

“ Indeed, sir ? That was before my time here, sir. Before 
our people's time here, sir. The George was in other hands 
at that time, sir.” 

“I believe so.” 

“But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like 
Tellson and Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not 
to speak of fifteen years ago?'' 

“You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet 
not be far from the truth.” 

“Indeed, sir!” 

Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped 
backward from the table, the waiter shifted his napkin from 
his right arm to his left, dropped into a comfortable attitude, 
and stood surveying the guest while he ate and drank, as 
from an observatory or watch-tower. According to the 
immemorial usage of waiters in all ages. 

When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out 
for a stroll on the beach. The little narrow, crooked town 
of Dover hid itself away from the beach, and ran its head into 


20 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


the chalk cliffs, like a marine ostrich. The beach was a 
desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling wildly about, and 
the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was destruction. 
It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and 
brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses 
was of so strong a piscatory flavour that one might have sup- 
posed sick fish went up to be dipped in it, as sick people went 
down to be dipped in the sea. A little fishing was done in 
the port, and a quantity of strolling about by night, and look- 
ing seaward : particularly at those times when the tide made, 
and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business 
Avhatever, sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, 
and it was remarkable that nobody in the neighbourhood 
could endure a lamp-lighter . 0 

As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which 
had been at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast 
to be seen, became again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. 
Lorry’s thoughts seemed to cloud too. When it was dark, 
and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting his dinner as 
he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging, 
digging, digging, in the live red coals. 

A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red 
coals no harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw 
him out of work. Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had 
just poured out his last glassful of wine with as complete an 
appearance of satisfaction as is ever to be found in an elderly 
gentleman of a fresh complexion who has got to the end of a 
bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow street, 
and rumbled into the inn-yard. 

He set down his glass untouched. “This is Mam’selle!” 
said he. 

In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that 
Miss Manette had arrived from London, and would be happy 
to see the gentleman from Tellson’s. 

“So soon?” 

Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and 
required none then, and was extremely anxious to see the 


A TALK OF TWO CITIES 


21 


gentleman from Tellson's immediately, if it suited his pleasure 
and convenience. 

The gentleman from Tellson’s had nothing left for it but to 
empty his glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd 
little flaxen wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss 
Manette’s apartment. It was a large, dark room, furnished 
in a funereal manner with black horsehair, and loaded with 
heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and oiled, until 
the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room 
were gloomily reflected on every leaf ; as if they were 
buried, in deep graves of black mahogany, and no light 
to speak of could be expected from them until they were 
dug out. 

The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, 
picking his way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed 
Miss Manette to be, for the moment, in some adjacent room, 
until, having got past the two tall candles, he saw standing to 
receive him by the table between them and the fire, a young 
lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak, and still 
holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. 
As his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity 
of golden hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an 
inquiring look, and a forehead with a singular capacity (re- 
membering how young and smooth it was), of lifting and 
knitting itself into an expression that was not quite one of 
perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright fixed 
attention, though it included all the four expressions — 
as his eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness 
passed before him, of a child whom he had held in his arms 
on the passage across that very Channel, one cold time, 
when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran high. The 
likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of the 
gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital 
procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, 
were offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divini- 
ties of the feminine gender — and he made his formal bow 
to Miss Manette. 


22 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant 
young voice; a little foreign in its accent, but a very little 
indeed. 

“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the manners 
of an earlier date, as he made his formal bow again, and took 
his seat. 

“ I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing 
me that some intelligence — or discovery ” 

“The word is not material, miss; either word will do.” 

“ — respecting the small property of my poor father, whom 
I never saw — so long dead ” 

Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look 
towards the hospital procession of negro cupids. As if they 
had any help for anybody in their absurd baskets ! 

“ — rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there 
to communicate with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to 
be despatched to Paris for the purpose.” 

“Myself.” 

“As I was prepared to hear, sir.” 

She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those 
days), with a pretty desire to convey to him that she felt 
how much older and wiser he was than she. He made her 
another bow. 

“ I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered neces- 
sary, by those who know, and who are so kind as to advise 
me, that I should go to France, and that as I am an orphan 
and have no friend who could go with me, I should esteem 
it highly if I might be permitted to place myself, during the 
journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The 
gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was 
sent after him to beg the favour of his waiting for me 
here.” 

“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted with the 
charge. I shall be more happy to execute it.” 

“Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. 
It was told me by the Bank that the gentleman would explain 
to me the details of the business, and that I must prepare my- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


23 


self to find them of a surprising nature. I have done my best 
to prepare myself, and I naturally have a strong and eager 
interest to know what they are.” 

“Naturally,” said Mr. Lorry. “Yes — I ” 

After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig 
at the ears, 

“It is very difficult to begin.” 

He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. 
The young forehead lifted itself into that singular expression 

— but it was pretty and characteristic, besides being singular 

— and she raised her hand, as if with an involuntary action 
she caught at, or stayed some passing shadow. 

“Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?” 

“Am I not?” Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended 
them outwards with an argumentative smile. 

Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine 
nose, the line of which was as delicate and fine as it was possi- 
ble to be, the expression deepened itself as she took her seat 
thoughtfully in the chair by which she had hitherto remained 
standing. He watched her as she mused, and the moment 
she raised her eyes again, went on : 

“In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better 
than address you as a young English lady, Miss Manette?” 

“If you please, sir.” 

“ Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business 
charge to acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don’t 
heed me any more than if I was a speaking machine — truly, 
I am not much else. I will, with your leave, relate to you, 
miss, the story of one of our customers.” 

“Story!” 

He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, 
when he added, in a hurry, “Yes, customers; in the banking 
business we usually call our connection our customers. He 
was a French gentleman; a scientific gentleman; a man of 
great acquirements — a Doctor.” 

“Not of Beauvais?” 

“Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your 


24 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


father, the gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur 
Manette, your father, the gentleman was of repute in Paris. 
I had the honour of knowing him there. Our relations 
were business relations, but confidential. I was at that 
time in our French House, and had been — oh ! twenty 
years.” 

“At that time — I may ask, at what time, sir?” 

“I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married — an 
English lady — and I was one of the trustees. His affairs, 
like the affairs of many other French gentlemen and French 
families, were entirely in Tellson’s hands. In a similar way 
I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for scores 
of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss; 
there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing 
like sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the 
course of my business life, just as I pass from one of our cus- 
tomers to another in the course of my business day ; in short, 
I have no feelings; I am a mere machine. To go on ” 

“But this is my father’s story, sir; and I begin to think” 
— the curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon 
him — “ that when I was left an orphan through my mother’s 
surviving my father only two years, it was you who brought 
me to England. I am almost sure it was you.” 

Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly 
advanced to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to 
his lips. He then conducted the young lady straightway 
to her chair again, and, holding the chair-back with his left 
hand, and using his right by turns to rub his chin, pull his 
wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking down 
into her face while she sat looking up into his. 

“Miss Manette, it was I. And you will see how truly I 
spoke of myself just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that 
all the relations I hold with my fellow-creatures are mere 
business relations, when you reflect that I have never seen 
you since. No ; you have been the ward of Tellson’s House 
since, and I have been busy with the other business of Tell- 
son’s House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


25 


no chance of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an 
immense pecuniary Mangle.” 6 

After this odd description of his daily routine of employ- 
ment, Mr. Lorry flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with 
both hands (which was most unnecessary, for nothing could 
be flatter than its shining surface was before), and resumed 
his former attitude. 

“So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of 
your regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your 

father had not died when he did Don’t be frightened ! 

How you start ! ” 

She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both 
her hands. 

“Pray,” said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left 
hand from the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory 
fingers that clasped him in so violent a tremble: “pray 
control your agitation — a matter of business. As I was 
saying ” 

Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, 
and began anew: 

“As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if 
he had suddenly and silently disappeared; if he had been 
spirited away; if it had not been difficult to guess to what 
dreadful place, though no art could trace him ; if he had an 
enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a privilege 
that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid 
to speak of in a whisper, across the water there ; for instance, 
the privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of 
any one to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time ; 
if his wife had implored the king, the queen, the court, the 
clergy, for any tidings of him, and all quite in vain ; — then 
the history of your father would have been the history of this 
unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.” 

“I entreat you to tell me more, sir.” 

“I will. I am going to. You can bear it?” 

“ I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in 
at this moment.” 


26 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“You speak collectedly, and you — are collected. That’s 
good ! ” (Though his manner was less satisfied than his 
words.) “A matter of business. Regard it as a matter of 
business — business that must be done. Now if this doctor’s 
wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit, had suffered 
so intensely from this cause before her little child was born — ” 

“The little child was a daughter, sir.” 

“A daughter.. A — a — matter of business — don’t be 
distressed. Miss, if the poor lady had suffered so intensely 
before her little child was born, that she came to the deter- 
mination of sparing the poor child the inheritance of any part 
of the agony she had known the pains of, by rearing her in the 

belief that her father was dead No, don’t kneel ! In 

Heaven’s name why should you kneel to me ! ” 

“For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the 
truth ! ” 

“A — a matter of business. You confuse me, and how 
can I transact business if I am confused? Let us be clear- 
headed. If you could kindly mention now, for instance, what 
nine times ninepence are, or how many shillings in twenty 
guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so much 
more at ease about your state of mind.” 

Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still 
when he had very gently raised her, and the hands that had not 
ceased to clasp his wrists were so much more steady than they 
had been, that she communicated some reassurance to Mr. 
Jarvis Lorry. 

“That’s right, that’s right. Courage! Business! You 
have business before you; useful business. Miss Manette, 
your mother took this course with you. And when she died 
— I believe broken-hearted — having never slackened her 
unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years 
old, to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without 
the dark cloud upon you of living in uncertainty whether 
your father soon wore his heart out in prison, or wasted there 
through many lingering years.” 

As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


27 


on the flowing golden hair ; as if he pictured to himself that 
it might have been already tinged with grey. 

“You know that your parents had no great possession, and 
that what they had was secured to your mother and to you. 
There has been no new discovery, of money, or of any other 
property ; but ” 

He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The ex- 
pression in the forehead, which had so particularly attracted 
his notice, and which was now immovable, had deepened 
into one of pain and horror. 

“But he has been — been found. He is alive. Greatly 
changed, it is too probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; 
though we will hope the best. Still, alive. Your father has 
been taken to the house of an old servant in Paris, and we 
are going there : I, to identify him if I can : you, to restore 
him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.” 

A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. 
She said, in a low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were 
saying it in a dream, 

“ I am going to see his Ghost ! It will be his Ghost — 
not him ! ” 

Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. 
“There, there, there ! See now, see now ! The best and the 
worst are known to you, now. You are well on your way to 
the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair sea voyage, 
and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.” 

She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “ I have 
been free, I have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted 
me !” 

~ “Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon 
it as a wholesome means of enforcing her attention : “he has 
been found under another name ; his own, long forgotten or 
long concealed. It would be worse than useless now to in- 
quire which ; worse than useless to seek to know whether he 
has been for years overlooked, or always designedly held 
prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any 
inquiries, because it would be dangerous. Better not to 


28 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


mention the subject, anywhere or in any way, and to remove 
him — - for a while at all events — out of France. Even I, 
safe as an Englishman, and even Tellson’s, important as they 
are to French credit, avoid all naming of the matter. I carry 
about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring to it. This 
is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries, and 
memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, ‘ Recalled 
to Life;' which may mean anything. But what is the 
matter! She doesn't notice a word! Miss Manette!’’ 

Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her 
chair, she sat under his hand, utterly insensible ; with her 
eyes open and fixed upon him, and with that last expression 
looking as if it were carved or branded into her forehead. 
So close was her hold upon his arm, that he feared to detach 
himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called out 
loudly for assistance without moving. 

A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. 
Lorry observed to be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, 
and to be dressed in some extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, 
and to have on her head a most wonderful bonnet like a 
Grenadier wooden measure , 0 and good measure too, or a 
great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance 
of the inn servants, and soon settled the question of his de- 
tachment from the poor young lady, by laying a brawny 
hand upon his chest, and sending him flying back against the 
nearest wall. 

(“I really think this must be a man!" was Mr. Lorry’s 
breathless reflection, simultaneously with his coming against 
the wall.) 

“ Why, look at you all ! ’’ bawled this figure, addressing the 
inn servants. “Why don’t you go and fetch things, instead 
of standing there staring at me? I am not so much to look 
at, am I? Why don’t you go and fetch things? I’ll let 
you know, if you don’t bring smelling-salts, cold water, and 
vinegar, quick, I will.” 

There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, 
and she softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


29 


great skill and gentleness: calling her “my precious !” 
and “my bird!” and spreading her golden hair aside over 
her shoulders with great pride and care. 

“And you in brown !” she said, indignantly turning to Mr. 
Lorry; “couldn’t you tell her what you had to tell her, 
without frightening her to death? Look at her, with her 
pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do you call that being 
a Banker?” 

Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so 
hard to answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with 
much feebler sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, 
having banished the inn servants under the mysterious penalty 
of “letting them know” something not mentioned if they 
stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a regular series 
of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head upon 
her shoulder. 

“I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry. 

“No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling 
pretty ! ” 

“I hope,” said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble 
sympathy and humility, “that you accompany Miss Manette 
to France?” 

“A likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman. “If it 
was ever intended that I should go across salt water, do you 
suppose Providence would have cast my lot in an island?” 

This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis 
Lorry withdrew to consider it. 


CHAPTER V 

THE WINE-SHOP 

A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the 
street. The accident had happened in getting it out of a 
cart; the cask had tumbled out with a run, the hoops had 


30 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


burst, and it lay on the stones just outside the door of the 
wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell. 

All the people within reach had suspended their business, or 
their idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The 
rough, irregular stones of the street, pointing every way, and 
designed, one might have thought, expressly to lame all 
living creatures that approached them, had dammed it into 
little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own jostling 
group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled 
down, made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, 
or tried to help women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, 
before the wine had all run out between their fingers. Others, 
men and women, dipped in the puddles with little mugs of 
mutilated earthenware, or even with handkerchiefs from 
women’s heads, which were squeezed dry into infants’ mouths ; 
others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as 
it ran; others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, 
darted here and there, to cut off little streams of wine that 
started ‘away in new directions; others devoted themselves 
to the sodden and lee-dyed pieces of the cask, licking, and 
even champing the moister wine-rotted fragments with eager 
relish. There was no drainage to carry off the wine, and not 
only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up 
along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the 
street, if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in 
such a miraculous presence. 

A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices — voices of 
men, women, and children — resounded in the street while 
this wine game lasted. There was little roughness in the 
sport, and much playfulness. There was a special compan- 
ionship in it, an observable inclination on the part of every 
one to join some other one, which led, especially among the 
luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of 
healths, shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and 
dancing, a dozen together. When the wine was gone, and the 
places where it had been most abundant were raked into a 
gridiron-pattern by fingers, these demonstrations ceased, as 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


31 


suddenly as they had broken out. The man who had left 
his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in motion 
again ; the woman who had left on a door-step the little pot 
of hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in 
her own starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, 
returned to it ; men with bare arms, matted locks, and cadav- 
erous faces, who had emerged into the winter light from 
cellars, moved away, to descend again ; and a gloom gathered 
on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine. 

The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the 
narrow street in the suburb of Saint Antoine , 0 in' Paris, where 
it was spilled. It had stained many hands, too, and many 
faces, and many naked feet, and many wooden shoes. The 
hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks on the 
billets ; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, 
was stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her 
head again. Those w r ho had been greedy with the staves of 
the cask, had acquired a tigerish smear about the mouth; 
and one tall joker so besmirched, his head more out of a long 
squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled upon a wall 
with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees — Blood. 

The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled 
on the street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red 
upon many there. 

And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a 
momentary gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, 
the darkness of it was heavy — cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, 
and want, were the lords in waiting on the saintly presence — 
nobles of great power all of them; but, most especially the 
last. Samples of a people that had undergone a terrible 
grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the 
fabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at 
every corner, passed in and out at every doorway, looked 
from every window, fluttered in every vestige of a garment 
that the wind shook. The mill which had worked them 
down, was the mill that grinds young people old ; the children 
had ancient faces and grave voices ; and upon them, and upon 


32 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


the grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and 
coming up afresh, was the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent 
everywhere. Hunger was pushed out of the tall houses, in 
the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and lines ; Hunger 
was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and 
paper ; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small 
modicum of firewood that the man sawed off ; Hunger stared 
down from the smokeless chimneys, and started up from the 
filthy street that had no offal, among its refuse, of anything 
to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the baker's shelves, 
written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of bad bread ; 
at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that was 
offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the 
roasting chestnuts in the turned cylinder ; Hunger was shred 
into atomies in every farthing porringer of husky chips of 
potato, fried with some reluctant drops of oil. 

Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow 
winding street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow 
winding streets diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, 
and all smelling of rags and nightcaps, and all visible things 
with a brooding look upon them that looked ill. In the 
hunted air of the people there was yet some wild-beast thought 
of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and slinking 
though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them ; 
nor compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor 
foreheads knitted into the likeness of the gallows-rope they 
mused about enduring, or inflicting. The trade signs (and 
they were almost as many as the shops) were, all, grim illus- 
trations of Want. The butcher and the porkman painted up, 
only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of 
meagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in 
the wine-shops, croaked over their scanty measures of thin 
wine and beer, and were gloweringly confidential together. 
Nothing was represented in a flourishing condition, save 
tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives and axes were 
sharp and bright, the smith’s hammers were heavy, and the 
gunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


33 


the pavement, with their many little reservoirs of mud and 
water, had no footways, but broke off abruptly at the doors. 
The kennel, to make amends, ran down the middle of the 
street — when it ran at all : which was only after heavy rains, 
and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. 
Across the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was 
slung by a rope and pulley ; at night, when the lamplighter 
had let these down, and lighted, and hoisted them again, 
a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly manner over- 
head, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and 
the ship and crew were in peril of tempest. 

For, the time was tq come, when the gaunt scarecrows of 
that region should have watched the lamplighter, in their 
idleness and hunger, so long, as to conceive the idea of im- 
proving on his method, and hauling up men by those ropes 
and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their condition. 
But, the time was not come yet ; and every wind that blew 
over France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the 
birds, fine of song and feather, took no warning. 

The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others 
in its appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop 
had stood outside it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, 
looking on at the struggle for the lost wine. “It's not my 
affair, ” said he, with a final shrug of the shoulders. “The 
people from the market did it. Let them bring another.” 

There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing 
up his joke, he called to him across the way: 

“Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?” 

The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, 
as is often the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and 
completely failed, as is often the way with his tribe too. 

“What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?” 
said the wine-shop keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating 
the jest with a handful of mud, picked up for the purpose, 
and smeared over it. “Why do you write in the public 
streets ? Is there — tell me thou — is there no other place 
to write such words in?” 


D 


34 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps 
accidentally, perhaps not) upon the joker’s heart. The joker 
rapped it with his own, took a nimble spring upward, and 
came down in a fantastic dancing attitude, with one of his 
stained shoes jerked off his foot into his hand, and held out. 
A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly practical char- 
acter, he looked, under those circumstances. 

“Put it on, put it on,” said the other. “Call wine, wine; 
and finish there.” With that advice, he wiped his soiled 
hand upon the joker’s dress, such as it was — quite deliber- 
ately, as having dirtied the hand on his account ; and then 
recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop. 

This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking 
man of thirty, and he should have been of a hot temperament, 
for, although it was a bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried 
one slung over his shoulder. His shirt-sleeves were rolled 
up, too, and his brown arms were bare to the elbows. Neither 
did he wear anything more on his head than his own crisply- 
curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, 
with good eyes and a good bold breadth between them. 
Good-humoured looking on the whole, but implacable-look- 
ing, too; evidently a man of a strong resolution and a set 
purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing down a 
narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn 
the man. 

Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter 
as he came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about 
his own age, with a watchful eye that seldom seemed to look 
at anything, a large hand heavily ringed, a steady face, 
strong features, and great composure of manner. There was 
a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might 
have predicted that she did not often make mistakes against 
herself in any of the reckonings over which she presided. 
Madame Defarge being sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, 
and had a quantity of bright shawl twined about her head, 
though not to the concealment of her large ear-rings. Her 
knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


35 


her teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right 
elbow supported by her left hand, Madame Defarge said 
nothing when her lord came in, but coughed just one grain 
of cough. This, in combination with the lifting of her darkly 
defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a line, 
suggested to her husband that he would do well to look 
round the shop among the customers, for any new customer 
who had dropped in while he stepped over the way. 

The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, 
until they rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, 
who were seated in a corner. Other company were there: 
two playing cards, two playing dominoes, three standing 
by the counter lengthening out a short supply of wine. As 
he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the elderly 
gentleman said in a look to the young lad}", “This is our 
man.” 

“What the devil do you do in that galley there ?” said 
Monsieur Defarge to himself; “I don’t know you.” 

But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell 
into discourse with the triumvirate of customers who were 
drinking at the counter. 

“How goes it, Jacques?” said one of these three to Mon- 
sieur Defarge. “Is all the spilt wine swallowed?” 

“Every drop, Jacques,” ° answered Monsieur Defarge. 

When this interchange of Christian name was effected, 
Madame Defarge, picking her teeth with her toothpick, 
coughed another grain of cough, and raised her eyebrows 
by the breadth of another line. 

“It is not often,” said the second of the three, addressing 
Monsieur Defarge, “that many of these miserable beasts 
know the taste of wine, or of anything but black bread and 
death. Is it not so, Jacques?” 

“It is so, Jacques,” Monsieur Defarge returned. 

At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame 
Defarge, still using her toothpick with profound composure, 
coughed another grain of cough, and raised her eyebrows 
bv the breadth of another line. 


36 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his 
empty drinking vessel and smacked his lips. 

“Ah! So much the worse ! A bitter taste it is that-^uch 
poor cattle always have in their mouths, and hard lives they 
live, Jacques. Am I right, Jacques ?” 

“You are right, Jacques,” was the response of Monsieur 
Defarge. 

This third interchange of the Christian name was com- 
pleted at the moment when Madame Defarge put her tooth- 
pick by, kept her eyebrows up, and slightly rustled in her seat. 

“Hold then! True!” muttered her husband. “Gentle- 
men — my wife ! ” 

The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame De- 
farge, with three flourishes. She acknowledged their homage 
by bending her head, and giving them a quick look. Then 
she glanced in a casual manner round the wine-shop, took up 
her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose of spirit, 
and became absorbed in it. 

“Gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his bright 
eye observantly upon her, “good day. The chamber, fur- 
nished bachelor-fashion, that you wished to see, and were 
inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the fifth floor. The 
doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard close 
to the left here,” pointing with his hand, “ near to the window 
of my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you 
has already been there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, 
adieu !” 

They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of 
Monsieur Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when 
the elderly gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged 
the favour of a word. 

“ Willingly, sir,” said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped 
with him to the door. 

Their conference was very short, but very decided. Al- 
most at the first word, Monsieur Defarge started and became 
deeply attentive. It had not lasted a minute, when he 
nodded and went out, The gentleman then beckoned to the 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


37 


young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge 
knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw 
nothing. 

Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the 
wine-shop thus, joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway 
to which he had directed his own company just before. It 
opened from a stinking little black courtyard, and was the 
general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited 
by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved 
entry to the gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge 
bent down on one knee to the child of his old master, and put 
her hand to his lips. It was a gentle action, but not at all 
gently done; a very remarkable transformation had come 
over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour in his 
face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret, 
angry, dangerous man. 

“It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin 
slowly.” Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. 
Lorry, as they began ascending the stairs. 

“Is he alone?” the latter whispered. 

“Alone! God help him, who should be with him!” said 
the other, in the same low voice. 

“Is he always alone, then?” 

“Yes.” 

“Of his own desire?” 

“Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him 
after they found me and demanded to know if I would take 
him, and, at my peril be discreet — as he was then, so he is 
now.” 

“ He is greatly changed ? ” 

“Changed !” 

The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with 
his hand, and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer 
could have been half so forcible. Mr. Lorry’s spirits grew 
heavier and heavier, as he and his two companions ascended 
higher and higher. 

Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more 


38 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


crowded parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at 
that time, it was vile indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened 
senses. Every little habitation within the great foul nest of 
one high building — that is to say, the room or rooms within 
every door that opened on the general staircase — left its 
own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides flinging other 
refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and hope- 
less mass of decomposition so engendered, would have pol- 
luted the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded 
it with their intangible impurities ; the two bad sources com- 
bined made it almost insupportable. Through such an at- 
mosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt and poison, the way 
lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to his 
young companion’s agitation, which became greater every 
instant, Mr. Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of 
these stoppages was made at a doleful grating, by which any 
languishing good airs that were left uncorrupted, seemed to 
escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed to crawl in. 
Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were 
caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within 
range, nearer or lower than the summits of the tw r o great 
towers of Notre-Dame, had any promise on it of healthy life or 
wholesome aspirations. 

At last, the top of - the staircase was gained, and they 
stopped for the third time. There was yet an upper stair- 
case, of a steeper inclination and of contracted dimensions, 
to be ascended, before the garret story was reached. The 
keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in advance, and 
always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he 
dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned 
himself about here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of 
the coat he carried over his shoulder, took out a key. 

“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, 
surprised. 

“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge. 

“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman 
so retired?” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


39 


“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge 
whispered it closer in his ear, and frowned heavily. 

“Why?” 

“ Why ! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he 
would be frightened — rave — tear himself to pieces — die — 
come to I know not what harm — if his door was left open.” 

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry. 

“ Is it possible ! ” repeated Defarge, bitterly. “Yes. And 
a beautiful world we live in, when it is possible, and when 
many other such things are possible, and not only possible, 
but done — done, see you ! — under that sky there, every 
day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.” 

This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that 
not a word of it had reached the young lady’s ears. But, 
by this time she trembled under such strong emotion, and her 
face expressed such deep anxiety, and, above all, such dread 
and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent on him to speak 
a word or tw T o of reassurance. 

“ Courage, dear miss ! Courage ! Business ! The worst will 
be over in a moment ; it is but passing the room-door, and 
the worst is over. Then, all the good you bring to him, all the 
relief, all the happiness you bring to him, begin. Let our 
good friend here, assist you on that side. That’s well, friend 
Defarge. Come, now. Business, business ! ” 

They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, 
and they were soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt 
turn in it, they came all at once in sight of three men, whose 
heads were bent down close together at the side of a door, and 
who were intently looking into the room to which the door 
belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hear- 
ing footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and 
showed themselves to be the three of one name who had been 
drinking in the wine-shop. 

“I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,” explained 
Monsieur Defarge. “ Leave us, good boys ; we have business 
here’.’*’ 

The three glided by, and went silently down. 


40 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the 
keeper of the wine-shop going straight to this one when they 
were left alone, Mr. Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a 
little anger: 

“Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?” 

“I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen 
few.” 

“Is that well?” 

“/ think it is well.” 

“Who are the few? How do you choose them?” 

“ I choose them as real men, of my name — Jacques is my 
name — to whom the sight is likely to do good. Enough ; } 
you are English ; that is another thing. Stay there, if you | 
please, a little moment.” 

With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, 
and looked in through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising 
his head again, he struck twice or thrice upon the door — 
evidently with no other object than to make a noise there. ! 
With the same intention, he drew the key across it, three or 
four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned 
it as heavily as he could. 

The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he 
looked into the room and said something. A faint voice 
answered something. Little more than a single syllable could 
have been spoken on either side. 

He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to 
enter. Mr. Lorry got his arm securely round the daughter’s 
waist, and held her ; for he felt that she was sinking. 

“A — a — a — business, business ! ” he urged, with a 
moisture that was not of business shining on his cheek. 
“Come in, come in !” 

“I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering. 

“Of it? What?” 

“I mean of him. Of my father.” 

Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the 
beckoning of their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm 
that shook upon his shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


41 


her into the room. He sat her down just within the door, 
and held her, clinging to him. 

Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the 
inside, took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All 
this he did, methodically, and with as loud and harsh an ac- 
companiment of noise as he could make. Finally, he walked 
across the room with a measured tread to where the window 
was. He stopped there, and faced round. 

The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the 
like, was dim and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, 
was in truth a door in the roof, with a little crane over it for 
the hoisting up of stores from the street : unglazed, and closing 
up the middle in two pieces, like any other door of French 
construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this door was 
fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way. 
Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these 
means, that it was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything ; 
and long habit alone could have slowly formed in any one, 
the ability to do any work requiring nicety in such obscurity. 
Yet, work of that kind was being done in the garret; for, 
with his back towards the door, and his face towards the 
window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at 
him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward 
and very busy, making shoes. 


CHAPTER VI 

THE SHOEMAKER 

“ Good day ! ” said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the 
white head that bent low over the shoemaking. 

It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded 
to the salutation, as if it were at a distance : 

“ Good day!” 


42 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, 
and the voice replied, “Yes — I am working.” This time, 
a pair of haggard eyes had looked at the questioner, before 
the face had dropped again. 

The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It 
was not the faintness of physical weakness, though confine- 
ment and hard fare no doubt had their part in it. Its deplor-j 
able peculiarity was, that it was the faintness of solitude and] 
disuse. It was like the last feeble echo of a sound made 
long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and reso- 
nance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a 
once beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. 
So sunken and suppressed it was, that it was like a voice 
underground. So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost 
creature, that a famished traveller, wearied out by lonely 
wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and 
friends in such a tone before lying down to die. 

Some minutes of silent work had passed : and the haggard 
eyes had looked up again : not with any interest or curiosity, 
but with a dull mechanical perception, beforehand, that the 
spot where the only visitor they were aware of had stood, w T as 
not yet empty. 

“I want,” said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze 
from the shoemaker, “to let in a little more light here. You | 
can bear a little more ? ” 

The shoemaker stopped his work ; looked with a vacant air 
of listening, at the floor on one side of him ; then similarly, 
at the floor on the other side of him ; then, upward at the i 
speaker. 

“What did you say?” 

“You can bear a little more light?” 

“I must bear it, if you let it in.” (Laying the palest 
shadow of a stress upon the second word.) 

The opened half-door was opened a little further, and 
secured at that angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell 
into the garret, and showed the workman with an unfinished 
shoe upon his lap, pausing in his labour. His few common 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


43 


tools and various scraps of leather were at his feet and on his 
bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very 
long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hol- 
lowness and thinness of his face would have caused them to 
look large, under his yet dark eyebrows and his confused 
white hair, though they had been really otherwise ; but, they 
were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so. His yellow 
rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body to 
be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his 
loose stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a 
long seclusion from direct light and air, faded down to such 
a dull uniformity of parchment-yellow, that it would have 
been hard to say which was which. 

He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and 
the very bones of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a 
[steadfastly vacant gaze, pausing in his work. He never 
looked at the figure before him, without first looking down on 
this side of himself, then on that, as if he had lost the habit of 
associating place with sound ; he never spoke, without first 
wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak. 

“Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” asked 
Defarge, motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward. 

“What did you say?” 

“Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” 

“ I can’t say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don’t know.” 

But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent 
over it again. 

Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by 
the door. When he had stood, for a minute or two, by the 
side of Defarge, the shoemaker looked up. He showed no 
surprise at seeing another figure, but the unsteady fingers of 
one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at it (his lips 
and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then the 
hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the 
shoe. The look and the action had occupied but an instant. 

“You have a visitor, you see,” said Monsieur Defarge. 

“What did you say?” 


44 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“Here is a visitor.” 

The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a 
hand from his work. 

“Come!” said Defarge. “Here is monsieur, who knows 
a well-made shoe when he sees one. Show him that shoe 
you are working at. Take it, monsieur.” 

Mr. Lorry took it in his hand. 

“Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker’s 
name.” 

There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker 
replied : 

“ I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say ? ” 

“ I said, couldn’t you describe the kind of shoe, for mon- 
sieur’s information ? ” 

“It is a lady’s shoe. It is a young lady’s walking-shoe. 
It is in the present mode. I never saw the mode. I have 
had a pattern in my hand.” He glanced at the shoe with 
some little passing touch of pride. 

“And the maker’s name?” said Defarge. 

Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of 
the right hand in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles 
of the left hand in the hollow of the right, and then passed a 
hand across his bearded chin, and so on in regular changes, 
without a moment’s intermission. The task of recalling him 
from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he had 
spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a 
swoon, or endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to 
stay the spirit of a fast-dying man. 

“Did you ask me for my name?” 

“Assuredly I did.” 

“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.” 

“Is that all?” 

“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.” 

With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he 
bent to work again, until the silence was again broken. 

“You are not a shoemaker by trade?” said Mr. Lorry, 
looking steadfastly at him. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


45 


His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have 
transferred the question to him : but as no help came from 
that quarter, they turned back on the questioner when they 
had sought the ground. 

“ I am not a shoemaker by trade ? No, I was not a shoe- 
maker by trade. I — I learnt it here. I taught myself. I 
asked leave to ” 

He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured 
changes on his hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly 
back, at last, to the face, from which they had wandered; 
when they rested on it, he started, and resumed, in the man- 
ner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a subject 
of last night. 

“I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much 
difficulty after a long while, and I have made shoes ever 
since.” 

As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken 
from him, Mr. Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face ; 

“Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?” 

The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly 
at the questioner. 

“Monsieur Manette;” Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon De- 
farge 's arm ; “ do you remember nothing of this man ? Look 
at him. Look at me. Is there no old banker, no old busi- 
ness, no old servant, no old time, rising in your mind, Mon- 
sieur Manette?” 

As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, 
at Mr. Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of 
an actively intent intelligence in the middle of the forehead, 
gradually forced themselves through the black mist that had 
fallen on him. They were overclouded again, they were 
fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And so 
exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of 
her who had crept along the wall to a point where she could 
see him, and where she now stood looking at him, with hands 
which at first had been only raised in frightened compassion, 
if not even to keep him off and shut out the sight of him, but 


40 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


which were now extending towards him, trembling with 
eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young 
breast, and love it back to life and hope — so exactly was 
the expression repeated (though in stronger characters) on 
her fair young face, that it looked as though it had passed 
like a moving light, from him to her. 

Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the 
two, less and less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstrac- 
tion sought the ground and looked about him in the old way. 
Finally, with a deep long sigh, he .took the shoe up, and re- 
sumed his work. 

“Have you recognised him, monsieur?” asked Defarge in 
a whisper. 

“Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, 
but I have unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the 
face that I once knew so well. Hush ! Let us draw further 
back. Hush!” 

She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the 
bench on which he sat. There was something awful in his 
unconsciousness of the figure that could have put out its 
hand and touched him as he stooped over his labour. 

Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She 
stood, like a spirit, beside him, and he bent over his work. 

It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the 
instrument in his hand, for his shoemaker’s knife. It lay 
on that side of him which was not the side on which she stood. 
He had taken it up, and was stooping to work again, when 
his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He raised them, and 
saw her face. The two spectators started forward, but she 
stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of 
his striking at her with the knife, though they had. 

He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his 
lips began to form some words, though no sound proceeded 
from them. By degrees, in the pauses of his quick and la- 
boured breathing, he was heard to say : 

“What is this?” 

With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


47 


hands to her lips, and kissed them to him ; then clasped them 
on her breast, as if she laid his ruined head there. 

“You are not the gaoler’s daughter?” 

She sighed “No.” 

“Who are you?” 

Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the 
bench beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon 
his arm. A strange thrill struck him when she did so, and 
visibly passed over his frame ; he laid the knife down softly, 
as he sat staring at her. 

Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been 
hurriedly pushed aside, and fell down over her neck. Ad- 
vancing his hand by little and little, he took it up and looked 
at it. In the midst of the action he went astray, and, with 
another deep sigh, fell to work at his shoemaking. 

But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon 
his shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three 
times, as if to be sure that it was really there, he laid down his 
work, put his hand to his neck, and took off a blackened 
string with a scrap of folded rag attached to it. He opened 
this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained a very little 
quantity of hair : not more than one or two long golden hairs, 
which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger. 

He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at 
it. “It is the same. How can it be ! When was it ! How 
was it ! ” 

As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he 
seemed to become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned 
her full to the light, and looked at her. 

“ She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when 
I was summoned out — she had a fear of my going, though I 
had ri*one — and when I was brought to the North Tower 
they found these upon my sleeve. ‘ You will leave me them ? 
They can never help me to escape in the body, though they 
may in the spirit.’ Those were the words I said. I remember 
them very well.” 

He formed this speech with his lips many times before he 


48 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


could utter it. But when he did find spoken words for it, 
they came to. him coherently, though slowly. 

“How was this? — Was it you?” 

Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon 
her with a frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still 
in his grasp, and only said, in a low voice, “ I entreat you, 
good gentlemen, do not come near us, do not speak, do not 
move ! ” 

“Hark!” he exclaimed. “Whose voice was that?” 

His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up 
to his white hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, 
as everything but his shoemaking did die out of him, and he 
refolded his little packet and tried to secure it in his breast ; 
but he still looked at her, and gloomily shook his head. 

“No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can’t 
be. See what the prisoner is. These are not the hands she 
knew, this is not the face she knew, this is not a voice she ever 
heard. No, no. She was — and He was — before the slow 
years of the North Tower — ages ago. What is your name, 
my gentle angel ? ” 

Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell 
upon her knees before him, with her appealing hands upon his 
breast. 

“0, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who 
my mother was, and who my father, and how I never knew 
their hard, hard history. But I cannot tell you at this time, 
and I cannot tell you here. All that I may tell you, here 
and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless me. 
Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!” 

His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which 
warmed and lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom 
shining on him. 

“ If you hear in my voice — I don’t know that it is so, but I 
hope it is — if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a 
voice that once was sweet music in your ears, weep for it, 
weep for it ! If you touch, in touching my hair, anything 
that recalls a beloved head that lay on your breast when you 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


49 


were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when I 
hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true 
to you with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I 
bring back the remembrance of a Home long desolate, while 
your poor heart pined away, weep for it, weep for it ! 

She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on 
her breast like a child. 

“If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, 
and that I have come here to take you from it, and that we go 
to England to be at peace and at rest, I cause you to think of 
your useful life laid waste, and of our native France so wicked 
to you, weep for it, weep for it ! And if, when I shall tell you 
of my name, and of my father who is living, and of my mother 
who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my honoured 
father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake 
striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because 
the love of my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for 
it, weep for it ! Weep for her, then, and for me ! Good 
gentlemen, thank God ! I feel his sacred tears upon my face, 
and his sobs strike against my heart. 0, see ! Thank God 
for us, thank God ! ” 

He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her 
breast : a sight so touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous 
wrong and suffering which had gone before it, that the two 
beholders covered their faces. 

Whjen the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, 
and his heaving breast and shaken form had long yielded to 
the calm that must follow all storms — emblem to humanity, 
of the rest and silence into which the storm called Life must 
hush at last — they came forward to raise the father and 
daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to 
the floor, and lay there in a lethargy, worn out. She had 
nestled down with him, that his head might lie upon her 
arm ; and her hair drooping over him curtained him from the 
light. 

“If, without disturbing him,” she said, raising her hand 
to Mr. Lorry as he stooped over them, after repeated blowings 


50 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


of his nose, “ all could be arranged for our leaving Paris at once, 
so that, from the very door, he could be taken away ” 

“But, consider. Is he fit for the journey ?” asked Mr. 
Lorry. 

“More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so 
dreadful to him.” 

“It is true,” said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on 
and hear. “More than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all 
reasons, best out of France. Say, shall I hire a carriage and 
post-horses?” 

“That’s business,” said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the 
shortest notice his methodical manners; “and if business is 
to be done, I had better do it.” 

“Then be so kind,” urged Miss Manette, “as to leave us 
here. You see how composed he has become, and you cannot 
be afraid to leave him with me now. Why should you be? 

If you will lock the door to secure us from interruption, 

I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come 
back, as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take 
care of him until you return, and then we will remove him 
straight.” 

Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this 
course, and in favour of one of them remaining. But, as 
there were not only carriage and horses to be seen to, but 
travelling papers ; and as time pressed, for the day was draw- 
ing to an end, it came at last to their hastily dividing the 
business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away 
to do it. 

Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head 
down on the hard ground close at the father’s side, and 
watched him. The darkness deepened and deepened, and 
they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed through the chinks 
in the wall. 

Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for 
the journey, and had brought with them, besides travelling , 
cloaks and wrappers, bread and meat, wine, and hot coffee. 
Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the lamp he carried, 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


51 


on the shoemaker’s bench (there was nothing else in the garret 
but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, 
and assisted him to his feet. 

No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of 
his mind, in the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether 
he knew what had happened, whether he recollected what they 
had said to him, whether he knew that he was free, were 
questions which no sagacity could have solved. They tried 
speaking to him ; but, he was so confused, and so very slow 
to answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and 
agreed for the time to tamper with him no more. He had a 
wild, lost manner of occasionally clasping his head in his 
hands, that had not been seen in him before ; yet, he had some 
pleasure in the mere sound of his daughter’s voice, and in- 
variably turned to it when she spoke. 

In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under 
coercion, he ate and drank what they gave him to eat and 
drink, and put on the cloak and other wrappings, that they 
gave him to wear. He readily responded to his daughter’s 
drawing her arm through his, and took — and kept — her hand 
in both his own. 

They began to descend ; Monsieur Defarge going first with 
the lamp, Mr. Lorry closing the little procession. They had 
not traversed many steps of the long main staircase when he 
stopped, and stared at the roof and round at the walls. 

“You remember the place, my father? You remember 
coming up here?” 

“ What did you say ? ” 

But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an 
answer as if she had repeated it. 

“Remember? No, I don’t remember. It was so very 
long ago.” 

That he had no recollection whatever of his having been 
brought from his prison to that house, was apparent to them. 
They heard him mutter, “One Hundred and Five, North 
Tower;” and when he looked about him, it evidently was for 
the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed him. 


52 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his 
tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge ; and when 
there was no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in 
the open street, he dropped his daughter’s hand and clasped 
his head again. 

No crowd was about the door ; no people were discernible 
at any of the many windows; not even a chance passer-by 
was in the street. An unnatural silence and desertion reigned 
there. Only one soul was to be seen, and that was Madame 
Defarge — who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and 
saw nothing. 

The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had 
followed him, when Mr. Lorry’s feet were arrested on the step 
by his asking, miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the 
unfinished shoes. Madame Defarge immediately called to 
her husband that she would get them, and went, knitting, 
out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly 
brought them down and handed them in ; — and immediately 
afterwards leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw 
nothing. 

Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the 
Barrier ! ” The postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered 
away under the feeble over-swinging lamps. 

Under the over-swinging lamps — swinging ever brighter 
in the better streets, and ever dimmer in the worse — and 
by lighted shops, gay crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and 
theatre-doors, to one of the city gates. Soldiers with lanterns, 
at the guard-house there. “Your papers, travellers !” “ See 

here then, Monsieur the Officer,” said Defarge, getting down, 
and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of mon- 
sieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to 

me, with him, at the ” He dropped his voice, there was 

a flutter among the military lanterns, and one of them being 
handed into the coach by an arm in uniform, the eyes con- 
nected with the arm looked, not an every day or an every 
night look, at monsieur with the white head. “It is well. 
Forward!” from the uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


53 


And so, under a short grove of feebler and feebler over- 
swinging lamps, out under the great grove of stars. 

Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, 
so remote from this little earth that the learned tell us it is 
doubtful whether their rays have even yet discovered it, as a 
point in space where anything is suffered or done : the shad- 
ows of the night were broad and black. All through the cold 
and restless interval, until dawn, they once more whispered 
in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry — sitting opposite the buried 
man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers 
were for ever lost to him, and what were capable of restora- 
tion — the old inquiry : 

“I hope you care to be recalled to life?” 

And the old answer: 

“I can’t say.” 


THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK 


BOOK THE SECOND 

THE GOLDEN THREAD 


CHAPTER I 

FIVE YEARS LATER 

Tellson’s Bank by Temple Bar° was an old-fashioned 
place, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and 
eighty. It was very small, very dark, very ugly, very in- 
commodious. It was an old-fashioned place, moreover, in 
the moral attribute that the partners in the House were 
proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its 
ugliness, proud of its incommodiousness. They were even 
boastful of its eminence in those particulars, and were fired 
by an express conviction that, if it were less objectionable, it 
would be less respectable. This was no passive belief, but an 
active weapon which they flashed at more convenient places 
of business. Tellson’s (they said) wanted no elbow-room, 
Tellson’s wanted no light, Tellson’s wanted no embellish- 
ment. Noakes and Co.’s might, or Snooks Brothers’ might; 
but Tellson’s, thank Heaven ! 

Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son 
on the question of rebuilding Tellson’s. In this respect the 
House was much on a par with the Country ; which did very 
often disinherit its sons for suggesting improvements in laws 
and customs that had long been highly objectionable, but 
were only the more respectable. 

Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson’s was the trium- 
phant perfection of inconvenience. After bursting open a 

54 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


55 


door of idiotic obstinacy with a weak rattle in its throat, you 
fell into Tellson’s down two steps, and came to your senses in 
a miserable little shop, with two little counters, where the 
oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the wind rustled 
it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of 
windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud 
from Fleet-street, and which were made the dingier by their 
own iron bars proper, and the heavy shadow of Temple Bar. 
If your business necessitated your seeing “the House,” you 
were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back, 
where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House 
came with its hands in its pockets, and you could hardly 
blink at it in the dismal twilight. Your money came out of, 
or went into, wormy old wooden drawers, particles of which 
flew up your nose and down your throat when they were 
opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as 
if they were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate 
was stowed away among the neighbouring cesspools, and evil 
communications corrupted its good polish in a day or two. 
Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms made of 
kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their 
parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes 
of family papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that 
always had a great dining-table in it and never had a dinner, 
and where, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and 
eighty, the first letters written to you by your old love, or by 
your little children, were but newly released from the horror 
of being ogled through the windows, by the heads exposed on 
Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy 
of Abyssinia or Ashantee. 

But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe 
much in vogue with all trades and professions, and not least 
of all with Tellson’s. Death is Nature’s remedy for all things, 
and why not Legislation’s? Accordingly, the forger was put 
to Death ; the utterer of a bad note was put to Death ; the 
unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death ; the purloiner 
of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death ; the holder 


56 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


of a horse at Tellson ’s door, who made off with it, was put to 
Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the 
sounders of three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of 
Crime, were put to Death. Not that it did the least good in 
the way of prevention — it might almost have been worth 
remarking that the fact was exactly the reverse — but, it 
cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each particular 
case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked 
after. Thus, Tellson’s, in its day, like greater places of 
business, its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, 
if the heads laid low before it had been ranged on Temple 
Bar instead of being privately disposed of, they would prob- 
ably have excluded what little light the ground floor had, in 
a rather significant manner. 

Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tell- 
son’s, the oldest of men carried on the business gravely. 
When they took a young man into Tellson’s London house, 
they hid him somewhere till he was old. They kept him in 
a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full Tellson flavour 
and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to 
be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting 
his breeches and gaiters into the general weight of the estab- 
lishment. 

Outside Tellson’s — never by any means in it, unless 
called in — was an odd-job-man, an occasional porter and 
messenger, who served as the live sign of the house. He 
was never absent during business hours, unless upon an 
errand, and then he was represented by his son : a grisly 
urchin of twelve, who was his express image. People un- 
derstood that Tellson ’s, in a stately way, tolerated the odd- 
job-man. The house had always tolerated some person in 
that capacity, and time and tide had drifted this person to 
the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful 
occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in 
the easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received 
the added appellation of Jerry. 

The scene was Mr. Cruncher’s private lodging in Hanging- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


57 


sword-alley, Whitefriars 0 : the time, half-past seven of the 
clock on a windy March morning, Anno Domini seventeen 
hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself always spoke 
of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes : apparently under 
the impression that the Christian era dated from the inven- 
tion of a popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name 
upon it.) 

Mr. Cruncher’s apartments were not in a savoury neigh- 
bourhood, and were but two in number, even if a closet with a 
single pane of glass in it might be counted as one. But they 
were very decently kept. Early as it was, on the windy March 
morning, the room in which he lay abed was already scrubbed 
throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged 
for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean 
white cloth was spread. 

Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, 
like a Harlequin 0 at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, 
by degrees, began to roll and surge in bed, until he rose above 
the surface, with his spiky hair looking as if it must tear the 
sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he exclaimed, in a 
voice of dire exasperation : 

“Bust me, if she ain’t at it agin ! ” 

A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from 
her knees in a corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to 
show that she was the person referred to. 

“ What ! ” said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. 
“You’re at it agin, are you?” 

After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he 
threw a boot at the woman as a third. It was a very muddy 
boot, and may introduce the odd circumstance connected 
with Mr. Cruncher’s domestic economy, that, whereas he 
often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he 
often got up next morning to find the same boots covered 
with clay. 

“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after 
missing his mark — “what are you up to, Aggerawayter 0 ? ” 

“I was only saying my prayers.” 


58 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ Saying your prayers ! You’re a nice woman ! What do 
you mean by flopping yourself down and praying agin me?” 

“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.” 

“You weren’t. And if you were, I won’t be took the 
liberty with. Here! your mother’s a nice woman, young 
Jerry, going a praying agin your father’s prosperity. You’ve 
got a dutiful mother, you have, my son. You’ve got a reli- 
gious mother, you have, my boy : going and flopping herself 
down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched 
out of the mouth of her only child.” 

Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, 
and, turning to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying 
away of his personal board. 

“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said 
Mr. Cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, “that the 
worth of your prayers may be? Name the price that you 
put your prayers at ! ” 

“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth 
no more than that.” 

“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. 
“They ain’t worth much, then. Whether or no, I won’t be 
prayed agin, I tell you. I can’t afford it. I’m not a going to 
be made unlucky by your sneaking. If you must go flopping 
yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and child, and 
not in opposition to ’em. If I had had any but a unnat’ral 
wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat’ral mother, 
I might have made some money last week instead of being 
counterprayed and countermined and religiously circum- 
wented into the worst of luck. B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr. 
Cruncher, who all this time had been putting on his clothes, 
“ if I ain’t, what with piety and one blowed thing and another, 
been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor 
devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress 
yourself, my boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon 
your mother now and then, and if you see any signs of more 
flopping, give me a call. For, I tell you,” here he addressed 
his wife once more, “I won’t be gone agin, in this manner. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


59 


I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as laud- 
anum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't 
know, if it wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and 
which somebody else, yet I’m none the better for it in pocket; 
and it's my suspicion that you've been at it from morning 
to night to prevent me from being the better for it in pocket, 
and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you 
say now!” 

Growling, in addition, such phrases as “ Ah ! yes ! You're 
religious, too. You wouldn't put yourself in opposition to 
the interests of your husband and child, would you? Not 
you ! " and throwing off other sarcastic sparks from the 
whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook 
himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for 
business. In the meantime, his son, whose head was gar- 
nished with tenderer spikes, and whose young eyes stood 
close by one another, as his father's did, kept the required 
watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor 
woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, 
where he made his toilet, with a suppressed cry of “ You are 
going to flop, mother. — Halloa, father!" and, after raising 
this fictitious alarm, darting in again with an undutiful grin. 

Mr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he 
came to his breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying 
grace with particular animosity. 

“Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it 
again?" 

His wife explained that she had merely “asked a blessing." 

“Don't do it!" said Mr. Cruncher, looking about, as if he 
rather expected to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy 
of his wife's petitions. “I ain't a going to be blest out of 
house and home. I won't have my wittles blest off my table. 
Keep still!" 

Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all 
night at a party which had taken anything but a convivial 
turn, Jerry Cruncher worried his breakfast rather than ate it, 
growling over it like any four-footed inmate of a menagerie. 


60 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Towards nine o’clock he smoothed his ruffled aspect, and, 
presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as he 
could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occu- 
pation of the day. 

It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite 
description of himself as “a honest tradesman.” His stock 
consisted of a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed 
chair cut down, which stool, young Jerry, walking at his 
father’s side, carried every morning to beneath the banking- 
house window that was nearest Temple Bar : where, with the 
addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned 
from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the 
odd-job-man’s feet, it formed the encampment for the day. 
On this post of his, Mr. Cruncher was as well known to Fleet- 
street and the Temple, as the Bar itself, — and was almost 
as ill-looking. 

Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch 
his three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed 
in to Tellson’s, Jerry took up his station on this windy 
March morning, with young Jerry standing by him, when 
not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to inflict 
bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing 
boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father 
and son, extremely like each other, looking silently on at 
the morning traffic in Fleet-street, with their two heads as 
near to one another as the two eyes of each were, bore a con- 
siderable resemblance to a pair of monkeys. The resem- 
blance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, 
that the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the 
twinkling eyes of the youthful Jerry were as restlessly 
watchful of him as of everything else in Fleet-street. 

The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached 
to Tellson’s establishment was put through the door, and the 
word was given : 

“ Porter wanted ! ” 

‘‘Hooray, father! Here’s an early job to begin with!’ 

Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


61 


seated himself on the stool, entered on his reversionary interest 
in the straw his father had been chewing, and cogitated. 

“Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!” mut- 
tered young Jerry. ‘‘Where does my father get all that 
iron rust from ? He don't get no iron rust here ! ” 


CHAPTER II 

A SIGHT 

“You know the Old Bailey , 0 well, no doubt?” said one of 
the oldest of clerks to Jerry the messenger. 

“Ye-es, sir,” returned Jerry, in something of a dogged 
manner. “I do know the Bailey.” 

“Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.” 

“I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the 
Bailey. Much better,” said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant 
witness at the establishment in question, “than I, as a honest 
tradesman, wish to know the Bailey.” 

“Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and 
show the door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then 
let you in.” 

“Into the court, sir?” 

“Into the court.” 

Mr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one 
another, and to interchange the inquiry, “What do you think 
of this?” 

“Am I to wait in the court, sir?” he asked, as the result of 
that conference. 

“I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the 
note to Mr. Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will 
attract Mr. Lorry's attention, and show him where you stand. 
Then what you have to do, is, to remain there until he wants 
you.” 

“ Is that all, sir?” 


62 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“That’s all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. 
This is to tell him you are there.” 

As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed 
the note, Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until 
he came to the blotting-paper stage, remarked : 

“I suppose they’ll be trying Forgeries this morning?” 

“Treason !” 

“That’s quartering, 0 ” said Jerry. “Barbarous!” 

“It is the law,” remarked the ancient clerk, turning his 
surprised spectacles upon him. “It is the law.” 

“It’s hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It’s hard 
enough to kill him, but it’s wery hard to spile him, sir.” 

“Not at all,” returned the ancient clerk. “Speak well of 
the law. Take care of your chest and voice, my good friend, 
and leave the law to take care of itself. I give you that ad- 
vice.” 

“It’s the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,” 
said Jerry. “ I leave you to judge what a damp way of earn- 
ing a living mine is.” 

“Well, well,” said the old clerk; “we all have our various 
ways of gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, 
and some of us have dry ways. Here is the letter. Go 
along.” 

Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less 
internal deference than he made an outward show of, “You 
are a lean old one, too,” made his bow, informed his son, in 
passing, of his destination, and went his way. 

They hanged at Tyburn , 0 in those days, so the street out- 
side Newgate 0 had not obtained one infamous notoriety that 
has since attached to it. But, the gaol was a vile place, in 
which most kinds of debauchery and villainy were prac- 
tised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came into 
court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from 
the dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him 
off the bench. It had more than once happened, that the 
Judge in the black cap pronounced his own doom as cer- 
tainly as the prisoner’s, and even died before him. For the 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


63 


rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard, 
from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and 
coaches, on a violent passage into the other world : traversing 
some two miles and a half of public street and road, and 
shaming few good citizens, if any. So powerful is use, and so 
desirable to be good use in the beginning. It was famous, 
too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted a pun- 
ishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, 
for the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very 
humanising and softening to behold in action; also, for ex- 
tensive transactions in blood-money, another fragment of 
ancestral wisdom, systematically leading to the most fright- 
ful mercenary crimes that could be committed under Heaven. 
Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice illustra- 
tion of the precept, that “ Whatever is is right ;" an aphorism 
that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the 
troublesome consequence, that nothing that ever was, was 
wrong. 

Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up 
and down this hideous scene of action, with the skill of a 
man accustomed to make his way quietly, the messenger 
found out the door he sought, and handed in his letter through 
a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play at the Old 
Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam 0 — only the 
former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all 
the Old Bailey doors were well guarded — except, indeed, the 
social doors by which the criminals got there, and those were 
always left wide open. 

After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned 
on its hinges a very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry 
Cruncher to squeeze himself into court. 

“ What's on ? " he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found 
himself next to. 

“ Nothing yet." 

“What's coming on?" 

“The Treason case." 

“The quartering one, eh?" 


64 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“Ah!” returned the man, with a relish; “he 41 be drawn 
on a hurdle to be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down 
and sliced before his own face, and then his inside will be 
taken out and burnt while he looks on, and then his head will 
be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters. That's the 
sentence.'' 

“If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?” Jerry added, by 
way of proviso. 

“Oh! they'll find him guilty,” said the other. “Don't 
you be afraid of that.” 

Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door- 
keeper, whom he saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the 
note in his hand. Mr. Lorry sat at a table, among the gentle- 
men in wigs : not far from a wigged gentleman, the prisoner's 
counsel, who had a great bundle of papers before him : and 
nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands in 
his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher 
looked at him then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated 
on the ceiling of the court. After some gruff coughing and 
rubbing of his chin and signing with his hand, Jerry attracted 
the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up to look for him, 
and who quietly nodded and sat down again. 

“What’s he got to do with the case?” asked the man he 
had spoken with. 

“Blest if I know,” said Jerry. 

“What have you got to do with it, then, if a person may 
inquire ?” 

“Blest if I know that either,” said Jerry. 

The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and 
settling down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, 
the dock became the central point of interest. Two gaolers, 
who had been standing there, went out, and the prisoner was 
brought in, and put to the bar. 

Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who 
looked at the ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath 
in the place, rolled at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. 
Eager faces strained round pillars and corners, to get a sight 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


65 


of him; spectators in back rows stood up, not to miss a hair 
of him ; people on the floor of the court, laid their hands on 
the shoulders of the people before them, to help themselves, 
at anybody’s cost, to a view of him — stood a-tiptoe, got upon 
ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him. 
Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the 
spiked wall of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner 
the beery breath of a whet he had taken as he came along, and 
discharging it to mingle with the waves of other beer, and gin, 
and tea, and coffee, and what not, that flowed at him, and 
already broke upon the great windows behind him in an im- 
pure mist and rain. 

The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man 
of about five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with 
a sunburnt cheek and a dark eye. His condition was that of 
a young gentleman. He was plainly dressed in black, or very 
dark grey, and his hair, which was long and dark, was gathered 
in a ribbon at the back of his neck ; more to be out of his way 
than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express 
itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which 
his situation engendered came through the brown upon his 
cheek, showing the soul to be stronger than the sun. He 
was otherwise quite self-possessed, bowed to the Judge, and 
stood quiet. 

The sort of interest with which this man was stared and 
breathed at, was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he 
stood in peril of a less horrible sentence — had there been a 
chance of any one of its savage details being spared — by 
just so much would he have lost in his fascination. The 
form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled, was 
the sight ; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered 
and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the 
various spectators put upon the interest, according to their 
several arts and powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the 
root of it, Ogreish. 

Silence in the court ! Charles Darnay had yesterday 
pleaded Not Guilty to an indictment denouncing him (with 

F 


66 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


infinite jingle and jangle) for that he was a false traitor to 
our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, prince, our 
Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers occasions, 
and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French 
King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, 
and so forth ; that was to say, by coming and going, between 
the dominions of our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so 
forth, and those of the said French Lewis, and wickedly, 
falsely, traitorously, and otherwise evil-adverbiously, reveal- 
ing to the said French Lewis what forces our said serene, 
illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation to send 
to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his 
head becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled 
it, made out with huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously 
at the understanding that the aforesaid, and over and over 
again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood there before him upon 
his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and that Mr. 
Attorney-General was making ready to speak. 

The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being men- 
tally hanged, beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, 
neither flinched from the situation, nor assumed any theat- 
rical air in it. He was quiet and attentive; watched the 
opening proceedings with a grave interest; and stood with 
his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so com- 
posedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with 
which it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs 
and sprinkled with vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air 
and gaol fever. 

Over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the 
light down upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched 
had been reflected in it, and had passed from its surface and 
this earth's together. Haunted in a most ghastly manner 
that abominable place would have been, if the glass could ever 
have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one day to 
give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and 
disgrace for which it had been reserved, may have struck the 
prisoner's mind. Be that as it may, a change in his position 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


67 


making him conscious of a bar of light across his face, he 
looked up ; and when he saw the glass his face flushed, and 
his right hand pushed the herbs away. 

It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of 
the court which was on his left. About on a level with his 
eyes, there sat, in that corner of the Judge’s bench, two per- 
sons upon whom his look immediately rested ; so immediately, 
and so much to the changing of his aspect, that all the eyes 
that were turned upon him, turned to them. 

The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of 
little more than twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently 
her father ; a man of a very remarkable appearance in respect 
of the absolute whiteness of his hair, and a certain indescrib- 
able intensity of face : not of an active kind, but pondering 
and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, 
he looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and 
broken up — as it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to 
his daughter — he became a handsome man, not past the 
prime of life. 

His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, 
as she sat by him, and the other pressed upon it. She had 
drawn close to him, in her dread of the scene, and in her pity 
for the prisoner. Her forehead had been strikingly expres- 
sive of an engrossing terror and compassion that saw nothing 
but the peril of the accused. This had been so very notice- 
able, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers 
who had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the 
whisper went about, “Who are they?” 

Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, 
in his own manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his 
fingers in his absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they 
were. The crowd about him had pressed and passed the 
inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and from him it had 
been more slowly pressed and passed back ; at last it got to 
Jerry : 

“ Witnesses.” 

“For which side?” 


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“Against.” 

“Against what side?” 

“The prisoner's.” 

The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, 
recalled them, leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at 
the man whose life was in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General 
rose to spin the rope, grind the axe, and hammer the nails 
into the scaffold. 


CHAPTER III 

A DISAPPOINTMENT 

Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the 
prisoner before them, though young in years, was old in the 
treasonable practices which claimed the forfeit of his life. 
That this correspondence with the public enemy was not a 
correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or even of last 
year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the prisoner 
had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and 
repassing between France and England, on secret business of 
which he could give no honest account. That, if it were in 
the nature of traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it 
never was), the real wickedness and guilt of his business 
might have remained undiscovered. That Providence, how- 
ever, had put it into the heart of a person who was beyond 
fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the 
prisoner’s schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them 
to his Majesty’s Chief Secretary of State and most honourable 
Privy Council. That, this patriot would be produced before 
them. That, his position and attitude were, on the whole, 
sublime. That, he had been the prisoner’s friend, but, at 
once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his infamy, 
had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer 
cherish in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. 
That, if statues were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


69 


and Rome, to public benefactors, this shining citizen would 
assuredly have had one. That, as they were not so decreed, 
he probably would not have one. That, Virtue, as had been 
observed by the poets (in many passages which he well knew 
the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their 
tongues; whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty 
consciousness that they knew nothing about the passages), 
was in a manner contagious; more especially the bright 
virtue known as patriotism, or love of country. That, the 
lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness 
for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an 
honour, had communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, 
and had engendered in him a holy determination to examine 
his master's table-drawers and pockets, and secrete his papers. 
That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to hear some 
disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but 
that, in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney- 
General's) brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his 
(Mr. Attorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called 
with confidence on the jury to come and do likewise. That, 
the evidence of these two witnesses, coupled with the docu- 
ments of their discovering that would be produced, would show 
the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of his Majesty's 
forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by sea and 
land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed 
such information to a hostile power. That, these lists could 
not be proved to be in the prisoner's -handwriting ; but that 
it was all the same; that, indeed, it was rather the better 
for the prosecution, as showing the prisoner to be artful in 
his precautions. That, the proof would go back five years, 
and would show the prisoner already engaged in these per- 
nicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the 
very first action fought between the British troops and the 
Americans. That, for these reasons, the jury, being, a loyal 
jury (as he knew they were), and being a responsible jury (as 
they knew they were), must positively find the prisoner 
Guilty, and make an end of him, whether they liked it or not. 


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That, they never could lay their heads upon their pillows; 
that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying 
their heads upon their pillows ; that, they never could endure 
the notion of their children laying their heads upon their 
pillows ; in short, that there never more could be, for them or 
theirs, any laying of heads upon pillows at all, unless the 
prisoner's head was taken off. That head Mr. Attorney- 
General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of 
everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on 
the faith of his solemn asseveration that he already con- 
sidered the prisoner as good as dead and gone. 

When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the 
court as if a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about 
the prisoner, in anticipation of what he was soon to become. 
When toned down again, the unimpeachable patriot ap- 
peared in the witness-box. 

Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, 
examined the patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. 
The story of his pure soul was exactly what Mr. Attorney- 
General had described it to be — perhaps, if it had a fault, 
a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom of its 
burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that 
the wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not 
far from Mr. Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The 
wigged gentleman sitting opposite, still looking at the ceiling 
of the court. 

Had he ever been a spy himself ? No, he scorned the base 
insinuation. What did he live upon? His property. 
Where was his property? He didn't precisely remember 
where it was. What was it? No business of anybody's. 
Had he inherited it ? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant 
relation. Very distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? 
Certainly not. Never in a debtors' prison? Didn't see 
what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors' prison? — 
Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? 
Two or three times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what 
profession? Gentleman. Ever been kicked? Might have 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


71 


been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked down-stairs? De- 
cidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, 
and fell down-stairs of his own accord. Kicked on that 
occasion for cheating at dice ? Something to that effect was 
said by the intoxicated liar who committed the assault, but 
it was not true. Swear it was not true ? Positively. Ever 
live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not 
more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the 
prisoner? Yes. Ever pay him? No. Was not this in- 
timacy with the prisoner, in reality a very slight one, forced 
upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets ? No. Sure 
he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no 
more about the lists ? No. Had not procured them himself, 
for instance ? No. Expect to get an-ything'by this evidence ? 
No. Not in regular government pay and employment, to 
lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear no. 
Swear that ? Over and over again. No motives but motives 
of sheer patriotism? None whatever. 

The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through 
the case at a great rate. He had taken service with the pris- 
oner, in good faith and simplicity, four years ago. He had 
asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais packet, if he wanted 
a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him. He had 
not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of 
charity — never thought of such a thing. He began to have 
suspicions of the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon 
afterwards. In arranging his clothes, while travelling, he had 
seen similar lists to these in the prisoner’s pockets, over and 
over again. He had taken these lists from the drawer of the 
prisoner’s desk. He had not put them there first. He had 
seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentle- 
men at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at 
Calais and Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn’t 
bear it, and had given information. He had never been 
suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot ; he had been maligned 
respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be only a 
plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight 


72 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


years; that was merely a coincidence. He didn’t call it a 
particularly curious coincidence ; most coincidences were 
curious. Neither did he call it a curious coincidence that 
true patriotism was his only motive too. He was a true 
Briton, and hoped there were many like him. 

The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General 
called Mr. Jarvis Lorry. 

“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson’s bank?” 

“I am.” 

“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand 
seven hundred and seventy-five, did business occasion you 
to travel between London and Dover by the mail?” 

“It did.” 

“Were there any other passengers in the mail?” 

“Two.” 

“ Did they alight on the road in the course of the night ? ” 

“They did.” 

“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those 
two passengers?” 

“I cannot undertake to say that he was.” 

“Does he resemble either of these two passengers?” 

“ Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and 
we were all so reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even 
that.” 

“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing 
him wrapped up as those two passengers were, is there any- 
thing in his bulk and stature to render it unlikely that he was 
one of them?” 

“No.” 

“You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of 
them ? ” 

“No.” 

“So at least you say he may have been one of them?” 

“Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been 
* — like myself — timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner 
has not a timorous air.” 

“Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


73 


“I certainly have seen that.” 

“Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you 
seen him, to your certain knowledge, before?” 

“I have.” 

“When?” 

“I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, 
at Calais, the prisoner came on board the packet-ship in 
which I returned, and made the voyage with me.” 

“At what hour did he come on board?” 

“At a little after midnight.” 

“ In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who 
came on board at that untimely hour ? ” 

“He happened to be the only one.” 

“Never mind about ‘happening/ Mr. Lorry. He was the 
only passenger who came on board in the dead of the night ?” 

“He was.” 

“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any com- 
panion?” 

“ With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are 
here.” 

“They are here. Had you any conversation with the pris- 
oner?” 

“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage 
long and rough, and I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to 
shore.” 

“Miss Manette!” 

The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, 
and were now turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her 
father rose with her, and kept her hand drawn through his 
arm. 

“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.” 

To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth 
and beauty, was far more trying to the accused than to be 
confronted with all the crowd. Standing, as it were, apart 
with her on the edge of his grave, not all the staring curiosity 
that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him to remain 
quitfc still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs 


74 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden ; and 
his efforts to control and steady his breathing shook the lips 
from which the colour rushed to his heart. The buzz of the 
great flies was loud again. 

“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Where?” 

“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and 
on the same occasion.” 

“You are the young lady just now referred to?” 

“ O ! most unhappily, I am ! ” 

The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less 
musical voice of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: 
“Answer the questions put to you, and make no remark upon 
them.” 

“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner 
on that passage across the Channel?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Recall it.” 

In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began : 

“When the gentleman came on board ” 

“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knit- 
ting his brows. 

“Yes, my Lord.” 

“Then say the prisoner.” 

“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my 
father,” turning her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside 
her, “was much fatigued and in a very weak state of health. 
My father was so reduced that I was afraid to take him out 
of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the deck near 
the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take care 
of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we 
four. The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise 
me how I could shelter my father from the wind and weather, 
better than I had done. I had not known how to do it well, 
not understanding how the wind would set when we were out 
of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed gteat 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


75 


gentleness and kindness for my father’s state, and I am sure 
he felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak 
together.” 

“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on 
board alone?” 

“No.” 

“ How many were with him ? ” 

“Two French gentlemen.” 

“Had they conferred together?” 

“They had conferred together until the last moment, when 
it was necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in 
their boat.” 

“ Had any papers been handed about among them, similar 
to these lists?” 

“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I 
don’t know what papers.” 

“Like these in shape and size?” 

“Possibly, but indeed I don’t know, although they stood 
whispering very near to me : because they stood at the top of 
the cabin steps to have the light of the lamp that was hanging 
there ; it was a dull lamp, and they spoke very low, and I did 
not hear what they said, and saw only that they looked at 
papers.” 

“Now, to the prisoner’s conversation, Miss Manette.” 

“The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me — 
which arose out of my helpless situation — as he was 
kind, and good, and useful to my father. I hope,” burst- 
ing into tears, “I may not repay him by doing him harm 
to-day.” 

Buzzing from the blue-flies. 

“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly under- 
stand that you give the evidence which it is your duty to 
give — which you must give — and which you cannot escape 
from giving — with great unwillingness, he is the only person 
present in that condition. Please to go on.” 

“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate 
and difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and 


76 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


that he was therefore travelling under an assumed name. He 
said that this business had, within a few days, taken him to 
France, and might, at intervals, take him backwards and 
forwards between France and England for a long time to 
come/’ 

“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be 
particular.” 

“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, 
and he said that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and 
foolish one on England’s part. He added, in a jesting way, 
that perhaps George Washington might gain almost as great 
a name in history as George the Third. But there was no 
harm in his way of saying this : it was said laughingly, and to 
beguile the time.” 

Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a 
chief actor in a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are 
directed, will be unconsciously imitated by the spectators. 
Her forehead was painfully anxious and intent as she gave 
this evidence, and, in the pauses when she stopped for the 
Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon the counsel 
for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same 
expression in all quarters of the court ; insomuch, that a great 
majority of the foreheads there, might have been mirrors 
reflecting the witness, when the Judge looked up from his 
notes to glare at that tremendous heresy about George 
Washington. 

Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he 
deemed it necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to 
call the young lady’s father, Doctor Manette. Who was 
called accordingly. 

“ Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever 
seen him before?” 

“ Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some 
three years, or three years and a half ago.” 

“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board 
the packet, or speak to his conversation with your daughter ? ” 

“Sir, I can do neither.” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


77 


“ Is there any particular and special reason for your being 
unable to do either ?” 

He answered, in a low voice, “There is.” 

“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprison- 
ment, without trial, or even accusation, in your native coun- 
try, Doctor Manette?” 

He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “A long 
imprisonment.” 

“Were you newly released on the occasion in question?” 

“They tell me so.” 

“Have you no remembrance of the occasion?” 

“None. My mind is a blank, from some time — I cannot 
even say what time — when I employed myself, in my cap- 
tivity, in making shoes, to the time when I found myself 
living in London with my dear daughter here. She had 
become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored my 
faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she 
had become familiar. I have no remembrance of the 
process.” • 

Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daugh- 
ter sat down together. 

A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The 
object in hand being to show that the prisoner went down, 
with some fellow-plotter untracked, in the Dover mail on 
that Friday night in November five years ago, and got out 
of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did 
not remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen 
miles or more, to a garrison and dockyard, and there collected 
information ; a witness was called to identify him as having 
been at the precise time required, in the coffee-room of an 
hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town, waiting for 
another person. The prisoner’s counsel was cross-examining 
this witness with no result, except that he had never seen 
the prisoner on any other occasion, when the wigged gentle- 
man who had all this time been looking at the ceiling of the 
court, wrote a word or two on a little piece of paper, screwed 
it up, and tossed it to him. Opening this piece of paper in 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


the next pause, the counsel looked with great attention and 
curiosity at the prisoner. 

“You say again you are quite sure that it was the pris- 
oner?” 

The witness was quite sure. 

“Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?” 

Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken. 

“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,” 
pointing to him who had tossed the paper over, “and then 
look well upon the prisoner. How say you ? Are they very 
like each other?” 

Allowing for my learned friend’s appearance being careless 
and slovenly if not debauched, they were sufficiently like 
each other to surprise, not only the witness, but everybody 
present, when they were thus brought into comparison. My 
Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside his wig, 
and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became 
much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver 
(the prisoner’s counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. 
Carton (name of my learned friend) for treason ? But, 
Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he would ask the 
witness to tell him whether what happened once, might 
happen twice ; whether he would have been so confident if 
he had seen this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether 
he would be so confident, having seen it; and more. The 
upshot of which, was, to smash this witness like a crockery 
vessel, and shiver his part of the case to useless lumber. 

Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust 
off his fingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to 
attend while Mr. Stryver fitted the prisoner’s case on the jury, 
like a compact suit of clothes ; showing them how the patriot, 
Barsad, was a hired spy and traitor, an unblushing trafficker in 
blood, and one of the greatest scoundrels upon earth since 
accursed Judas — which he certainly did look rather like. 
How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner, and 
was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers 
and false swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


79 


because some family affairs in France, he being of French 
extraction, did require his making those passages across the 
Channel — though what those affairs were, a consideration 
for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him, even 
for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been 
warped and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in 
giving it they had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the 
mere little innocent gallantries and politenesses likely to 
pass between any young gentleman and young lady so 
thrown together ; — with the exception of that reference to 
George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant 
and impossible to be regarded in any other light than as a 
monstrous joke. How it would be a weakness in the govern- 
ment to break down in this attempt to practise for popularity 
on the lowest national antipathies and fears, and therefore 
Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it; how, never- 
theless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous 
character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and 
of which the State Trials of this country were full. But, 
there my Lord interposed (with as grave a face as if it had not 
been true), saying that he could not sit upon that Bench and 
suffer those allusions. 

Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher 
had next to attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the 
whole suit of clothes Mr. Stryver had fitted on the jury, 
inside out ; showing how Barsad and Cly were even a hundred 
times better than he had thought them, and the prisoner a 
hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turn- 
ing the suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on 
the whole decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave- 
clothes for the prisoner. 

And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies 
swarmed again. 

Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of 
the court, changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in 
this excitement. While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, 
massing his papers before him, whispered with those who sat 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


near, and from time to time glanced anxiously at the jury; 
while all the spectators moved more or less, and grouped 
themselves anew ; while even my Lord himself arose from his 
seat, and slowly paced up and down his platform, not un- 
attended by a suspicion in the minds of the audience that his 
state was feverish ; this one man sat leaning back, with his 
torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put on just as it had 
happened to light on his head after its removal, his hands in 
his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all 
day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not 
only gave him a disreputable look, but so diminished the 
strong resemblance he undoubtedly bore to the prisoner 
(which his momentary earnestness, when they were com- 
pared together, had strengthened) , that many of the lookers- 
on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would 
hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher 
made the observation to his next neighbour, and added, “I’d 
hold half a guinea that he don’t get no law- work to do. Don’t 
look like the sort of one to get any, do he ? ” 

Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene 
than he appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette’s 
head dropped upon her father’s breast, he was the first to see 
it, and to say audibly: “ Officer! look to that young lady. 
Help the gentleman to take her out. Don’t you see she will 
fall!” 

There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, 
and much sympathy with her father. It had evidently been 
a great distress to him, to have the days of his imprison- 
ment recalled. He had shown strong internal agitation when 
he was questioned, and that pondering or brooding look which 
made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud, ever 
since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and 
paused a moment, spoke, through their foreman. 

They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord 
(perhaps with George Washington on his mind) showed some 
surprise that they were not agreed, but signified his pleasure 
that they should retire under watch and ward, and retired 


A TALK OF TWO CITIES 


81 


himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in the 
court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that 
the jury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped 
off to get refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back 
of the dock, and sat down. 

Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her 
father went out, now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry : 
who, in the slackened interest, could easily get near him. 

“Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, 
keep in the way. You will be sure to hear when the jury 
come in. Don’t be a moment behind them, for I want you 
to take the verdict back to the bank. You are the quickest 
messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long before I 
can.” 

Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled 
it in acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. 
Mr. Carton came up at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry 
on the arm. 

“How is the young lady?” 

“She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting 
her, and she feels the better for being out of court.” 

“I’ll tell the prisoner so. It won’t do for a respectable 
bank gentleman like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, 
you know.” 

Mr. .uorry reddened as if he were conscious of having 
debated the point in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way 
to the outside of the bar. The way out of court lay in that 
direction, and Jerry followed him, all eyes, ears, and spikes. 

“Mr. Darnay!” 

The prisoner came forward directly. 

“You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, 
Miss Manette. She will do very well. You have seen the 
worst of her agitation.” 

“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could 
you tell her so for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?” 

“Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.” 

Mr. Carton’s manner was so careless as to be almost in- 

a 


82 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Solent. He stood, half turned from the prisoner, lounging 
with his elbow against the bar. 

“I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.” 

“What,” said Carton, still only half turned towards him, 
“do you expect, Mr. Darnay?” 

“The worst.” 

“It’s the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But 
I think their withdrawing is in your favour.” 

Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry 
heard no more : but left them — so like each other in feature, 
so unlike each other in manner — standing side by side, both 
reflected in the glass above them. 

An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and- 
rascal crowded passages below, even though assisted off with 
mutton pies and ale. The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably 
seated on a form after taking that refection, had dropped into 
a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide of people setting 
up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along with 
them. 

“Jerry! Jerry!” Mr. Lorry was already calling at the 
door when he got there. 

“ Here, sir ! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, 
sir !” 

Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. 
“Quick! Have you got it?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Hastily written on the paper was the word “Acquitted.” 

“If you had sent the message, ‘Recalled to Life/ again,” 
muttered Jerry, as he turned, “I should have known what 
you meant, this time.” 

He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, 
anything else, until he was clear of the Old Bailey ; for, the 
crowd came pouring out with a vehemence that nearly took 
him off his legs, and a loud buzz swept into the street as if 
the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in search of other 
carrion. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


83 


CHAPTER IV 

CJ 

CONGRATULATORY 

From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last 
sediment of the human stew that had been boiling there all 
day, was straining off, when Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, 
his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor for the defence, and its 
counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr. Charles 
Darnay - — just released — congratulating him on his escape 
from death. 

It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to 
recognise in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright 
of bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one 
could have looked at him twice, without looking again : even 
though the opportunity of observation had not extended to 
the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and to the 
abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any ap- 
parent reason. While one external cause, and that a reference 
to his long lingering agony, would always — as on the trial — 
evoke this condition from the depths of his soul, it was also 
in its nature to arise of itself, and to draw a gloom over him, 
as incomprehensible to those unacquainted with his story 
as if they had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille 0 thrown 
upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three 
hundred miles away. 

Only his daughter had the power of charming this black 
brooding from his mind. She was the golden thread that 
united him to a Past beyond his misery, and to a Present 
beyond his misery : and the sound of her voice, the light of 
her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial 
influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, 
for she could recall some occasions on which her power had 
failed; but they were few and slight, and she believed them 
over. 

Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, 


84 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


and had turned to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. 
Mr. Stryver, a man of little more than thirty, but looking 
twenty years older than he was, stout, loud, red, bluff, and 
free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing way of 
shouldering himself (morally and physically) into com- 
panies and conversations, that argued well for his shoulder- 
ing his way up in life. 

He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring 
himself at his late client to that degree that he squeezed the 
innocent Mr. Lorry clean out of the group : “I am glad to 
have brought you off with honour, Mr. Darnay. It was an 
infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the less 
likely to succeed on that account.” 

“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life — in 
two senses,” said his late client, taking his hand. 

“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best 
is as good as another man's, I believe.” 

It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much 
better,” Mr. Lorry said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, 
but with the interested object of squeezing himself back again. 

“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have 
been present all day, and you ought to know. You are a 
man of business, too.” 

“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel 
learned in the law had now shouldered back into the group, 
just as he had previously shouldered him out of it — “as 
such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up this con- 
ference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, 
Mr. Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.” 

“Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I have 
a night's work to do yet. Speak for yourself.” 

“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “and for Mr. 

Darnay, and for Miss Lucie, and Miss Lucie, do you not 

think I may speak for us all?” He asked her the question 
pointedly, and with a glance at her father. 

His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious 
look at Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


85 


dislike and distrust, not even unmixed with fear. With this 
strange expression on him his thoughts had wandered away. 

“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his. 

He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her. 

“Shall we go home, my father?” 

With a long breath, he answered “Yes.” 

The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under 
the impression — which he had himself originated — that 
he would not be released that night. The lights were nearly 
all extinguished in the passages, the iron gates were being 
closed with a jar and a rattle, and the dismal place was 
deserted until to-morrow morning’s interest of gallows, 
pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople 
it. Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie 
Manette passed into the open air. A hackney-coach was 
called, and the father and daughter departed in it. 

Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his 
way back to the robing-room. Another person, who had not 
joined the group, or interchanged a word with any one of 
them, but who had been leaning against the wall where its 
shadow was darkest, had silently strolled out after the rest, 
and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now 
stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon 
the pavement. 

“ So, Mr. Lorry ! Men of business may speak to Mr. 
Darnay now?” 

Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton’s 
part in the day’s proceedings ; nobody had known of it. He 
was unrobed, and was none the better for it in appearance. 

“ If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, 
when the business mind is divided between good-natured 
impulse and business appearances, you would be amused, 
Mr. Darnay.” 

Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, “You have men- 
tioned that before, sir. We men of business, who serve a 
House, are not our own masters. We have to think of the 
House more than ourselves.” 


86 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“I know, I know,” rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. 
“Don’t be nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, 
I have no doubt : better, I dare say.” 

“And indeed, sir,” pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, 
“I really don’t know what you have to do with the matter. 
If you’ll excuse me, as very much your elder, for saying so, 
I really don’t know that it is your business.” 

“Business! Bless you, I have no business,” said Mr. 
Carton. 

“It is a pity you have not, sir.” 

“I think so, too.” 

“If you had,” pursued Mr. Lorry, “perhaps you would 
attend to it.” 

“Lord love you, no! — I shouldn’t,” said Mr. Carton. 

“Well, sir!” cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his 
indifference, “business is a very good thing, and a very 
respectable thing. And, sir, if business imposes its restraints 
and its silences and impediments, Mr. Darnay as a young 
gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance for 
that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, 
sir ! I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosper- 
ous and happy life. — Chair there ! °” 

Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the 
barrister, Mr. Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried 
off to Tellson’s. Carton, who smelt of port wine, and did 
not appear to be quite sober, laughed then, and turned to 
Darnay : 

“This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. 
'This must be a strange night to you, standing alone here with 
your counterpart on these street stones?” 

“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to belong 
to this world again.” 

“ I don’t wonder at it ; it’s not so long since you were pretty 
far advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.” 

“I begin to think I am faint.” 

“Then why the devil don’t you dine? I dined, myself, 
while those numskulls were deliberating which world you 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


87 


should belong to — this, or some other. Let me show you 
the nearest tavern to dine well at.” 

Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down 
Ludgate-hill to Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a 
tavern. Here, they were shown into a little room, where 
Charles Darnay was soon recruiting his strength with a 
good plain dinner and good wine : while Carton sat opposite 
to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port 
before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him. 

“ Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme 
again, Mr. Darnay?” 

“I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but 
I am so far mended as to feel that.” 

“It must be an immense satisfaction!” 

He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which 
was a large one. 

“As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I 
belong to it. It has no good in it for me — except wine like 
this — nor I for it. So we are not much alike in that par- 
ticular. Indeed, I begin to think we are not much alike in 
any particular, you and I.” 

Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being 
there with this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a 
dream, Charles Darnay was at a loss how to answer ; finally, 
answered not at all. 

“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, “why 
don’t you call a health, Mr. Darnay ; why don’t you give 
your toast?” 

“What health? What toast?” 

“Why, it’s on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it 
must be, I’ll swear it’s there.” 

“Miss Manette, then!” 

“Miss Manette, then!” 

Looking his companion fultin the face while he drank the 
toast, Carton flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, 
where it shivered to pieces ; then, rang the bell, and ordered 
in another. 


88 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“That’s a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, 
Mr. Darnay!” he said, filling his new goblet. 

A slight frown and a laconic “Yes,” were the answer. 

“That’s a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by ! 
How does it feel ? Is it worth being tried for one’s life, to be 
the object of such sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?” 

Again Darnay answered not a word. 

“She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I 
gave it her. Not that she showed she was pleased, but I 
suppose she was.” 

The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that 
this disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, as- 
sisted him in the strait of the day. He turned the dialogue 
to that point, and thanked him for it. 

“I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,” was the 
careless rejoinder. “ It was nothing to do, in the first place ; 
and I don’t know why I did it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, 
let me ask you a question.” 

“Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.” 

“Do you think I particularly like you?” 

“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly discon- 
certed, “I have not asked myself the question.” 

“But ask yourself the question now.” 

“You have acted as if you do ; but I don’t think you do.” 

“I don’t think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a 
very good opinion of your understanding.” 

“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, 
“there is nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the 
reckoning, and our parting without ill-blood on either side.” 

Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do 
you call the whole reckoning?” said Carton. On his an- 
swering in the affirmative, “Then bring me another pint of 
this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at ten.” 

The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him 
good night. Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, 
with something of a threat of defiance in his manner, and 
said, “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think I am drunk?” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


89 


“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton. ” 

“Think? You know I have been drinking.” 

“Since I must say so, I know it.” 

“ Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed 
drudge, sir. I care for no man on earth, and no man on earth 
cares for me.” 

“ Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents 
better.” 

“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don’t let your 
sober face elate you, however; you don’t know what it may 
come to. Good night!” 

When he was left alone, this strange being took up a 
candle, went to a glass that hung against the wall, and sur- 
veyed himself minutely in it. 

“ Do you particularly like the man ? ” he muttered, at his 
own image; “why should you particularly like a man who 
resembles you ? There is nothing in you to like ; you know 
that. Ah, confound you ! What a change you have made 
in yourself ! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows 
you what you have fallen away from, and what you might 
have been ! Change places with him, and would you have 
been looked at by those blue eyes as he was, and commiserated 
by that agitated face as he was ? Come on, and have it out in 
plain words ! You hate the fellow.” 

He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it 
all in a few minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his 
hair straggling over the table, and a long winding-sheet in the 
candle dripping down upon him. 


CHAPTER V 

THE JACKAL 



Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So 
very great is the improvement Time has brought about in 
such habits, that a moderate statement of the quantity of 


90 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


wine and punch which one man would swallow in the course 
of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a per- 
fect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous 
exaggeration. The learned profession of the law was cer- 
tainly not behind any other learned profession in its Bac- 
chanalian propensities; neither was Mr. Stryver, already 
fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative practice, 
behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the 
drier parts of the legal race. 

A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions , 0 
Mr. Stryver had begun cautiously to hew away the lower 
staves of the ladder on which he mounted. Sessions and Old 
Bailey had now to summon their favourite, specially, to their 
longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the visage of 
the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King’s Bench, the 
florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, burst- 
ing out of the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its 
way at the sun from among a rank garden-full of flaring 
companions. 

It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver 
was a glib man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, 
he had not that faculty of extracting the essence from a heap 
of statements, which is among the most striking and necessary 
of the advocate’s accomplishments. But, a remarkable 
improvement came upon him as to this. The more business 
he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its 
pith and marrow ; and however late at night he sat carousing 
with Sydney Carton, he always had his points at his fingers’ 
ends in the morning. 

Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was 
Stryver ’s great ally. What the two drank together, between 
Hilary Term and Michaelmas , 0 might have floated a king’s 
ship. Stryver never had a case in hand, anywhere, but Car- 
ton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the 
ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even 
there they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, 
and Carton was rumoured to be seen at broad day, going 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


91 


home stealthily and unsteadily to his lodgings, like a dissi- 
pated cat. At last, it began to get about, among such as 
were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton 
would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and 
that he rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble 
capacity. 

“Ten o'clock, sir," said the man at the tavern, whom he 
had charged to wake him — “ten o’clock, sir." 

“ What’s the matter?" 

“Ten o’clock, sir." 

“What do you mean? Ten o’clock at night?" 

“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you." 

“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well." 

After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man 
dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for 
five minutes, he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. 
He turned into the Temple, and, having revived himself by 
twice pacing the pavements of King’s Bench-walk and Paper- 
buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers. 

The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, 
had gone home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. 
He had his slippers on, and a loose bed-gown, and his throat 
was bare for his greater ease. He had that rather wild, 
strained, seared marking about the eyes, which may be ob- 
served in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of 
Jeffries 0 downward, and which can be traced, under various 
disguises of Art, through the portraits of every Drinking 
Age. 

“You are a little late, Memory," said Stryver. 

“About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour 
later." 

They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered 
with papers, where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed 
upon the hob, and in the midst of the wreck of papers a 
table shone, with plenty of wine upon it, and brandy, and 
rum, and sugar, and lemons. 

“You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney." 


92 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day’s 
client ; or seeing him dine — it’s all one ! ” 

“That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear 
upon the identification. How did you come by it? When 
did it strike you?” 

“I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought 
I should have been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had 
any luck.” 

Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch. 

“You and your luck, Sydney ! Get to work, get to work.” 

Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an 
adjoining room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, 
a basin, and a towel or two. Steeping the towels in the water, 
and partially wringing them out, he folded them on his head 
in a manner hideous to behold, sat down at the table, and 
said, “Now I am ready!” 

“Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,” 
said Mr. Stryver, gaily, as he looked among his papers. 

“How much?” 

“Only two sets of them.” 

“Give me the worst first.” 

“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!” 

The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one 
side of the drinking- table, while the jackal sat at his own 
paper-bestrewn table proper, on the other side of it, with 
the bottles and glasses ready to his hand. Both resorted to 
the drinking-table without stint, but each in a different way ; 
the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in his waist- 
band, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some 
lighter document ; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent 
face, so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the 
hand he stretched out for his glass — which often groped 
about, for a minute or more, before it found the glass for his 
lips. Two or three times, the matter in hand became so 
knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on him to get up, 
and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the 
jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


93 


head-gear as no words can describe; which were made the 
more ludicrous by his anxious gravity. 

At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for 
the lion, and proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it 
with care and caution, made his selections from it, and his 
remarks upon it, and the jackal assisted both. When the 
repast was fully discussed, the lion put his hands in his waist- 
band again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then 
invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a 
fresh application to his head, and applied himself to the col- 
lection of a second meal ; this was administered to the lion 
in the same manner, and was not disposed of until the clocks 
struck three in the morning. 

“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” 
said Mr. Stryver. 

The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had 
been steaming again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and 
complied. 

“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those 
crown witnesses to-day. Every question told.” 

“I always am sound; am I not?” 

“I don’t gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? 
Put some punch to it and smooth it again.” 

With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied. 

“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said 
Stryver, nodding his head over him as he reviewed him in the 
present and the past, “the old seesaw Sydney. Up one 
minute and down the next ; now in spirits and now in despon- 
dency ! ” 

“Ah!” returned the other, sighing: “yes! The same 
Sydney, with the same luck. Even then, I did exercises for 
other boys, and seldom did my own.” 

“And why not?” 

“God knows. It was my way, I suppose.” 

He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched 
out before him, looking at the fire. 

“Carton,” said his friend, squaring himself at him with a 


94 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


bullying air, as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which 
sustained endeavour was forged, and the one delicate thing to 
be done for the old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School 
was to shoulder him into it, “your way is, and always was, a 
lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look at 
me." 

“Oh, botheration ! ” returned Sydney, with a lighter and 
more good-humoured laugh, “don’t you be moral!” 

“How have I done what I have done?” said Stryver; 
“how do I do what I do?” 

“Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But 
it’s not worth your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about 
it; what you want to do, you do. You were always in the 
front rank, and I was always behind.” 

“ I had to get into the front rank ; I was not born there, 
was I?” 

“I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is 
you were,” said Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they 
both laughed. 

“Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since 
Shrewsbury,” pursued Carton, “you have fallen into your 
rank, and I have fallen into mine. Even when we were fel- 
low-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris, picking up 
French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we 
didn’t get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I 
was always — nowhere.” 

“And whose fault was that?” 

<f Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You 
were always driving and riving and shouldering and passing, 
to that restless degree that I had no chance for my life but 
in rust and repose. It’s a gloomy thing, however, to talk 
about one’s own past, with the day breaking. Turn me in 
some other direction before I go.” 

“Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,” said 
Stryver, holding up his glass. “Are you turned in a pleasant 
direction ? ” 

Apparently not, for he became gloomy again. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


95 


“Pretty witness/' he muttered, looking down into his 
glass. “ I have had enough of witnesses to-day and to-night ; 
who's your pretty witness?" 

“The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette." 

“ She pretty?" 

“Is she not?" 

“No." 

“Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole 
Court ! " 

“Rot the admiration of the whole Court ! Who made the 
Old Bailey a j udge of beauty ? She was a golden-haired doll ! ’ ' 

“Do you know, Sydney," said Mr. Stryver, looking at him 
with sharp eyes, and slowly drawing a hand across his florid 
face : “do you know, I rather thought, at the time, that you 
sympathised with the golden-haired doll, and were quick to 
see what happened to the golden-haired doll?" 

“Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, 
swoons within a yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it 
without a perspective-glass. I pledge you, but I deny the 
beauty. And now I'll have no more drink; I'll get to bed." 

When his host followed him out on the staircase with a 
candle, to light him down the stairs, the day was coldly 
looking in through its grimy windows. When he got out of 
the house, the air was cold and sad, the dull sky overcast, 
the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a lifeless desert. 
And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round before 
the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, 
and the first spray of it in its advance had begun to over- 
whelm the city. 

Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this 
man stood still on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for 
a moment, lying in the wilderness before him, a mirage of 
honourable ambition, self-denial, and perseverance. In the 
fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries from which 
the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the 
fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in 
his sight. A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high 


90 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


chamber in a well of houses, he threw himself down in his 
clothes on a neglected bed, and its pillow was wet with wasted 
tears. 

Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight 
than the man of good abilities and good emotions, incapable 
of their directed exercise, incapable of his own help and his 
own happiness, sensible of the blight on him, and resigning 
himself to let it eat him away. 


CHAPTER VI 

HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE 

The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet 
street-corner not far from Soho-square . 0 On the afternoon 
of a certain fine Sunday when the waves of four months had 
rolled over the trial for treason, and carried it, as to the public 
interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis Lorry walked 
along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell 0 where he lived, on 
his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into 
business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor’s 
friend, and the quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his 
life. 

On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards 
Soho, early in the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. 
Firstly, because, on fine Sundays, he often walked out, before 
dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie; secondly, because, on 
unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with them 
as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, 
and generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he 
happened to have his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and 
knew how the ways of the Doctor’s household pointed to that 
time as a likely time for solving them. 

A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, 
was not to be found in London. There was no way through it, 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


97 


and the front windows of the Doctor’s lodgings commanded a 
pleasant little vista of street that had a congenial air of retire- 
ment on it. There were few buildings then, north of the 
Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers 
grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished 
fields. As a consequence, country airs circulated in Soho 
with vigorous freedom, instead of languishing into the parish 
like stray paupers without a settlement ; and there was many 
a good south wall, not far off, on which the peaches ripened 
in their season. 

The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the 
earlier part of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the 
corner was in shadow, though not in shadow so remote but 
that you could see beyond it into a glare of brightness. It 
was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful place for 
echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets. 

There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an an- 
chorage, and there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a 
large still house, where several callings purported to be pur- 
sued by day, but whereof little was audible any day, and which 
was shunned by all of them at night. In a building at the 
back, attainable by a court-yard where a plane-tree rustled 
its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and 
silver to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some 
mysterious giant who had a golden arm starting out of the 
wall of the front hall — as if he had beaten himself precious, 
and menaced a similar conversion of all visitors. Very little 
of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured to live upstairs, 
or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have a count- 
ing-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a 
stray workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a 
stranger peered about there, or a distant clink was heard 
across the court-yard, or a thump from the golden giant. 
These, however, were only the exceptions required to prove 
the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind the house, 
and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way 
from Sunday morning unto Saturday night. 


H 


98 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old 
reputation, and its revival in the floating whispers of his 
story, brought him. His scientific knowledge, and his 
vigilance and skill in conducting ingenious experiments, 
brought him otherwise into moderate request, and he earned 
as much as he wanted. 

These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry’s knowledge, 
thoughts, and notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tran- 
quil house in the corner, on the fine Sunday afternoon. 

“Doctor Manette at home?” 

Expected home. 

“Miss Lucie at home?” 

Expected home. 

“Miss Pross at home?” 

Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for hand- 
maid to anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission 
or denial of the fact. 

“As I am at home myself,” said Mr. Lorry, “I’ll go up- 
stairs.” 

Although the Doctor’s daughter had known nothing of 
the country of her birth, she appeared to have innately 
derived from it that ability to make much of little means, 
which is one of its most useful and most agreeable character- 
istics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off by so many 
little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy, 
that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything 
in the rooms, from the largest object to the least ; the arrange- 
ment of colours, the elegant variety and contrast obtained 
by thrift in trifles, by delicate hands, clear eyes, and good 
sense; were at once so pleasant in themselves, and so ex- 
pressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry stood looking 
about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him, 
with something of that peculiar expression which he knew 
so well by this time, whether he approved? 

There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which 
they communicated being put open that the air might pass 
freely through them all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of 


A TuiLE OF TWO CITIES 


99 


that fanciful resemblance which he detected all around him, 
walked from one to another. The first was the best room, and 
in it were Lucie’s birds, and flowers, and books, and desk, and 
work-table, and box of water-colours ; the second was the 
Doctor’s consulting-room, used also as the dining-room ; the 
third, changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in 
the yard, was the Doctor’s bed-room, and there, in a corner, 
stood the disused shoemaker’s bench and tray of tools, much 
as it had stood on the fifth floor of the dismal house by the 
wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris. 

“I wonder,” said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, 
“that he keeps that reminder of his sufferings about him !” 

“And why wonder at that?” was the abrupt inquiry that 
made him start. 

It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong 
of hand, whose acquaintance he had first made at the Royal 
George Hotel at Dover, and had since improved. 

“I should have thought ” Mr. Lorry began. 

“Pooh! You’d have thought!” said Miss Pross; and 
Mr. Lorry left off. 

“How do you do?” inquired that lady then — sharply, 
and yet as if to express that she bore him no malice. 

“I am pretty well, I thank you,” answered Mr. Lorry, 
with meekness; “how are you?” 

“Nothing to boast of,” said Miss Pross. 

“Indeed ?” 

“Ah! indeed!” said Miss Pross. “ I am very much put 
out about my Ladybird.” 

“Indeed?” 

“For gracious sake say something else besides ‘indeed,’ 
or you’ll fidget me to death,” said Miss Pross: whose char- 
acter (dissociated from stature) was shortness. 

“ Really, then ? ” said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment. 

“Really, is bad enough,” returned Miss Pross, “but better. 
Yes, I am very much put out.” 

“May I ask the cause?” 

“I don’t want dozens of people who are not at all worthy 


100 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


of Ladybird, to come here looking after her,” said Miss 
Pross. 

“Do dozens come for that purpose?” 

“Hundreds,” said Miss Pross. 

It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people 
before her time and since) that whenever her original propo- 
sition was questioned, she exaggerated it. 

“Dear me!” said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could 
think of. 

“I have lived with the darling — or the darling has lived 
with me, and paid me for it; which she certainly should 
never have done, you may take your affidavit, if I could 
have afforded to keep either myself or her for nothing — 
since she was ten years old. And it’s really very hard,” 
said Miss Pross. 

Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry 
shook his head ; using that important part of himself as a sort 
of fairy cloak that would fit anything. 

“All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy 
of the pet, are always turning up,” said Miss Pross. “When 
you began it ” 

“I began it, Miss Pross?” 

“Didn’t you? Who brought her father to life?” 

“Oh ! If that was beginning it ” said Mr. Lorry. 

“ It wasn’t ending it, I suppose ? I say, when you began it, 
it was hard enough; not that I have any fault to find with 
Doctor Manette, except that he is not worthy of such a 
daughter, which is no imputation on him, for it was not to be 
expected that anybody should be, under any circumstances. 
But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds and 
multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have 
forgiven him), to take Ladybird’s affections away from me.” 

Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also 
knew her by this time to be, beneath the service of her eccen- 
tricity, one of those unselfish creatures — found only among 
women — who will, for pure love and admiration, bind them- 
selves willing slaves, to youth when thev have lost it, to beauty 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


101 


that they never had, to accomplishments that they were never 
fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone 
upon their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to 
know that there is nothing in it better than the faithful service 
of the heart; so rendered and so free from any mercenary 
taint, he had such an exalted respect for it, that in the retribu- 
tive arrangements made by his own mind — we all make 
such arrangements, more or less — he stationed Miss Pross 
much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasur- 
ably better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances 
at Tellson's. 

“There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of 
Ladybird,” said Miss Pross; “and that was my brother 
Solomon, if he hadn't made a mistake in life.” 

Here again : Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross 's personal 
history had established the fact that her brother Solomon 
was a heartless scoundrel who had stripped her of everything 
she possessed, as a stake to speculate with, and had abandoned 
her in her poverty for evermore, with no touch of compunc- 
tion. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon (deducting a 
mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious matter 
with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her. 

“As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both 
people of business,” he said, when they had got back to the 
drawing-room and had sat down there in friendly relations, 
“let me ask you — does the Doctor, in talking with Lucie, 
never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?” 

“Never.” 

“And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?” 

“Ah!” returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. “But I 
don't say he don't refer to it within himself.” 

“Do you believe that he thinks of it much?” 

“I do,” said Miss Pross. 

“Do you imagine ” Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss 

Pross took him up short with: 

“Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at 
all.” 


102 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“I stand corrected: do you suppose — you go so far as to 
suppose, sometimes ?” 

“Now and then,” said Miss Pross. 

“Do you suppose,” Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing 
twinkle in his bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, “ that 
Doctor Manette has any theory of his own, preserved through 
all those years, relative to the cause of his being so oppressed ; 
perhaps, even to the name of his oppressor?” 

“I don’t suppose anything about it but what Ladybird 
tells me.” 

“And that is ?” 

“That she thinks he has.” 

“Now don’t be angry at my asking all these questions; 
because I am a mere dull man of business, and you are a 
woman of business.” 

“Dull?” Miss Pross inquired, with placidity. 

Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry 
replied, “No, no, no. Surely not. To return to business : — 
Is it not remarkable that Doctor Manette, unquestionably 
innocent of any crime as we are all well assured he is, should 
never touch upon that question? I will not say with me, 
though he had business relations with me many years ago, and 
we are now intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to 
whom he is so devotedly attached, and who is so devotedly 
attached to him ? Believe me, Miss Pross, I don’t approach 
the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of zealous in- 
terest.” 

“Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad’s the 
best, you’ll tell me,” said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of 
the apology, “he is afraid of the whole subject.” 

“Afraid?” 

“It’s plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It’s a 
dreadful remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself 
grew out of it. Not knowing how he lost himself, or how he 
recovered himself, he may never feel certain of not losing 
himself again. That alone wouldn’t make the subject 
pleasant, I should think.” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


103 


It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. 
“True,” said he, “and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt 
lurks in my mind, Miss Pross, whether it is good for Doctor 
Manette to have that suppression always shut up within him. 
Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness it sometimes 
causes me that has led me to our present confidence.” 

“Can’t be helped,” said Miss Pross, shaking her head. 
“Touch that string, and he instantly changes for the worse. 
Better leave it alone. In short, must leave it alone, like or 
no like. Sometimes, he gets up in the dead of the night, and 
will be heard, by us overhead there, walking up and down, 
walking up and down, in his room . Ladybird has learnt to know 
then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and 
down, in his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on to- 
gether, walking up and down, walking up and down, until he is 
composed. But he never says a word of the true reason of 
his restlessness, to her, and she finds it best not to hint at it 
to him. In silence they go walking up and down together, 
walking up and down together, till her love and company 
have brought him to himself.” 

Notwithstanding Miss Pross’s denial of her own imagina- 
tion, there was a perception of the pain of being monotonously 
haunted by one sad idea, in her repetition of the phrase, 
walking up and down, which testified to her possessing such a 
thing. 

The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for 
echoes ; it had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of 
coming feet, that it seemed as though the very mention of that 
weary pacing to and fro had set it going. 

“Here they are!” said Miss Pross, rising to break up the 
conference; “and now we shall have hundreds of people 
pretty soon ! ” 

It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, 
such a peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the 
open window, looking for the father and daughter whose steps 
he heard, he fancied they would never approach. Not only 
would the echoes die away, as though the steps had gone; 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


but, echoes of other steps that never came would be heard in 
their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed 
close at hand. However, father and daughter did at last 
appear, and Miss Pross was ready at the street door to receive 
them. 

Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and 
grim, taking off her darling’s bonnet when she came up-stairs, 
and touching it up with the ends of her handkerchief, and 
blowing the dust off it, and folding her mantle ready for laying 
by, and smoothing her rich hair with as much pride as she 
could possibly have taken in her own hair if she had been the 
vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleas- 
ant sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting 
against her taking so much trouble for her — which last she 
only dared to do playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would 
have retired to her own chamber and cried. The Doctor was 
a pleasant sight too, looking on at them, and telling Miss 
Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with eyes that had 
as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would have 
had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight 
too, beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his 
bachelor stars for having lighted him in his declining years 
to a Home. But, no Hundreds of people came to see the 
sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain for the fulfilment of 
Miss Pross’s prediction. 

Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the ar- 
rangements of the little household, Miss Pross took charge 
of the lower regions, and always acquitted herself marvellously. 
Her dinners, of a very modest quality, were so well cooked and 
so well served, and so neat in their contrivances, half English 
and half French, that nothing could be better. Miss Pross’s 
friendship being of the thoroughly practical kind, she had 
ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of im- 
poverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half- 
crowns, would impart culinary mysteries to her. From these 
decayed sons and daughters of Gaul, she had acquired such 
wonderful arts, that the woman and girl who formed the 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


105 


staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress, or Cin- 
derella’s Godmother : who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit, 
a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into 
anything she pleased. 

On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor’s table, but on 
other days persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, 
either in the lower regions, or in her own room on the second 
floor — a blue chamber, to which no one but her Ladybird 
ever gained admittance. On this occasion, Miss Pross, 
responding to Ladybird’s pleasant face and pleasant efforts 
to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very 
pleasant, too. 

It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie pro- 
posed that the wine should be carried out under the plane- 
tree, and they should sit there in the air. As everything 
turned upon her, and revolved about her, they went out under 
the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for the special 
benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some time 
before, as Mr. Lorry’s cup-bearer ; and while they sat under 
the plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mys- 
terious backs and ends of houses peeped at them as they 
talked, and the plane-tree whispered to them in its own way 
above their heads. 

Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. 
Mr. Darnay presented himself while they were sitting under 
the plane-tree, but he was only One. 

Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. 
But Miss Pross suddenly became afflicted with a twitching 
in the head and body, and retired into the house. She was 
not unfrequently the victim of this disorder, and she called it, 
in familiar conversation, “a fit of the jerks.” 

The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially 
young. The resemblance between him and Lucie was very 
strong at such times, and as they sat side by side, she leaning 
on his shoulder, and he resting his arm on the back of her 
chair, it was very agreeable to trace the likeness. 

He had been talking all dav, on many subjects, and with 


106 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


unusual vivacity. “Pray, Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Dar- 
nay, as they sat under the plane-tree — and he said it in the 
natural pursuit of the topic in hand, which happened to be 
the old buildings of London — “have you seen much of the 
Tower ? ” 

“Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We 
have seen. enough of it, to know that it teems with interest; 
little more.” 

“ I have been there, as you remember,” said Darnay, with a 
smile, though reddening a little angrily, “in another char- 
acter, and not in a character that gives facilities for seeing 
much of it. They told me a curious thing when I was 
there.” 

“What was that?” Lucie asked. 

“In making some alterations, the workmen came upon 
an old dungeon, which had been, for many years, built up 
and forgotten. Every stone of its inner wall was covered 
by inscriptions which had been carved by prisoners — dates, 
names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone in an 
angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to 
execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were 
done with some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with 
an unsteady hand. At first, they were read as D. I. C. ; but, 
on being more carefully examined, the last letter was found to 
be G. There was no record or legend of any prisoner with 
those initials, and many fruitless guesses were made what 
the name could have been. At length, it was suggested that 
the letters were not initials, but the complete word, Dig. 
The floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, 
and, in the earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment 
of paving, were found the ashes of a paper, mingled with the 
ashes of a small leathern case or bag. What the unknown 
prisoner had written will never be read, but he had written 
something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler.” 

“My father,” exclaimed Lucie, “you are ill!” 

He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. 
His manner and his look quite terrified them all. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


107 


“ No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, 
and they made me start. We had better go in.” 

He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really fall- 
ing in large drops, and he showed the back of his hand with 
rain-drops on it. But, he said not a single word in reference 
to the discovery that had been told of, and, as they went into 
the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry either detected, 
or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned towards 
Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon 
it when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court 
House. 

He recovered ' himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry 
had doubts of his business eye. The arm of the golden giant 
in the hall was not more steady than he was, when he stopped 
under it to remark to them that he was not yet proof against 
slight surprises (if he ever would be), and that the rain had 
startled him. 

Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of 
the jerks upon her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. 
Carton had lounged in, but he made only Two. 

The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with 
doors and windows open, they were overpowered by heat. 
When the tea-table was done with, they all moved to one of 
the windows, and looked out into the heavy twilight. Lucie 
sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton leaned 
against a window. The curtains were long and white, and 
some of the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, 
caught them up to the ceiling, and waved them like spectral 
wings. 

“The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,” 
said Doctor Manette. “It comes slowly.” 

“It comes surely,” said Carton. 

They spoke low, as people watching and waitingmostly 
do; as people in a dark room, watching and waiting for 
Lightning, always do. 

There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding 
away to get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful 


108 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


corner for echoes resounded with the echoes of footsteps 
coming and going, yet not a footstep was there. 

“ A multitude of people, and yet a solitude ! ” said Darnay, 
when they had listened for a while. 

“ Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay ? ” asked Lucie. “ Some- 
times, I have sat here of an evening, until I have fancied — 
but even the shade of a foolish fancy makes me shudder to- 
night, when all is so black and solemn ” 

“ Let us shudder too. We may know what it is. ,, 

“It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only im- 
pressive as we originate them, I think ; they are not to be 
communicated. I have sometimes sat alone here of an 
evening, listening, until I have made the echoes out to be the 
echoes of all the footsteps that are coming by-and-bye into 
our lives.” < 

“There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if 
that be so / 7 Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way. 

The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them be- 
came more and more rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed 
with the tread of feet ; some, as it seemed, under the windows ;. 
some, as it seemed, in the room ; some coming, some going, 
some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in the 
distant streets, and not one within sight. 

“Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss 
Manette, or are we to divide them among us?” 

“I don’t know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish 
fancy, but you asked for it. When I have yielded myself 
to it, I have been alone, and then I have imagined them the 
footsteps of the people who are to come into my life, and my 
father’s.” 

“I take them into mine!” said Carton. “/ ask no ques- 
tions and make no stipulations. There is a great crowd 
bearing down upon us, Miss Manette, and I see them — by 
the Lightning. ” He added the last words, after there had been 
a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window. 

“And I hear them!” he added again, after a peal of 
thunder. “Here they come, fast, fierce, and furious!” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


109 


It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it 
stopped him, for no voice could be heard in it. A memo- 
rable storm of thunder and lightning broke with that sweep 
of water, and there was not a moment’s interval in crash, 
and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at midnight. 

The great bell of Saint Paul’s was striking One in the 
cleared air, when Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted 
and bearing a lantern, set forth on his return-passage to 
Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches of road on the 
way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful 
of footpads, always retained Jerry for this service : though 
it was usually performed a good two hours earlier. 

“What a night it has been ! Almost a night, Jerry,” said 
Mr. Lorry, “to bring the dead out of their graves.” 

“I never see the night myself, master — nor yet I don’t 
expect to — what would do that,” answered Jerry. 

“Good night, Mr. Carton,” said the man of business. 

“ Good night, Mr. Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night 
again, together!” 

Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its 
rush and roar, bearing down upon them, too. 


CHAPTER VII 

MONSEIGNEUR IN TOWN 

Monseigneur , 0 one of the great lords in power at the 
Court, held his fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in 
Paris. Monseigneur was in his inner room, his sanctuary 
of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to the crowd of wor- 
shippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur was 
about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow 
a great many things with ease, and was by some few sullen 
minds supposed to be rather rapidly swallowing France ; but, 


110 


A TALE OE TWO CITIES 


his morning’s chocolate could not so much as get into the 
throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four strong men 
besides the Cook. 

Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous deco- 
ration, and the Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than 
two gold watches in his pocket, emulative of the noble and 
chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to conduct the happy 
chocolate to Monseigneur’s lips. One lacquey carried the 
chocolate-pot into the sacred presence ; a second, milled and 
frothed the chocolate with the little instrument he bore for 
that function; a third, presented the favoured napkin; a 
fourth (he of the two gold watches), poured the chocolate 
out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to dispense with 
one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high 
place under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been 
the blot upon his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly 
waited on by only three men ; he must have died of two. 

Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, 
where the Comedy and the Grand Opera were charmingly 
represented. Monseigneur was out at a little supper most 
nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so impres- 
sible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera 
had far more influence with him in the tiresome articles of 
state affairs and state secrets, than the needs of all France. A 
happy circumstance for France, as the like always is for all 
countries similarly favoured ! — always was for England (by 
way of example), in the regretted days of the merry Stuart 
who sold it.° 

Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public 
business, which was, to let everything go on in its own way ; 
of particular public business, Monseigneur had the other truly 
noble idea that it must all go his way — tend to his own 
power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and particular, 
Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world 
was made for them. The text of his order (altered from the 
original by only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: “The 
earth and the fulness thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur.” 


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111 


Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrass- 
ments crept into his affairs, both private and public ; arid he 
had, as to both classes of affairs, allied himself perforce with 
a Farmer-General . 0 As to finances public, because Mon- 
seigneur could not make anything at all of them, and must 
consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to 
finances private, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and 
Monseigneur, after generations of great luxury and expense, 
was growing poor. Hence Monseigneur had taken his sister 
from a convent, while there was yet time to ward off the 
impending veil, the cheapest garment she could wear , 0 and 
had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General, 
poor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appro- 
priate cane with a golden apple on the top of it, was now 
among the company in the outer rooms, much prostrated 
before by mankind — always excepting superior mankind 
of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, 
looked down upon him with the loftiest contempt. 

A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses 
stood in his stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his 
halls, six body-women waited on his wife. As one who 
pretended to do nothing but plunder and forage where he 
could, the Farmer-General — howsoever his matrimonial 
relations conduced to social morality — was at least the 
greatest reality among the personages who attended at the 
hotel of Monseigneur that day. 

For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and 
adorned with every device of decoration that the taste and 
skill of the time could achieve, were, in truth, not a sound 
business; considered with any reference to the scarecrows 
in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not so far off, 
either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost 
equi-distant from the two extremes, could see them both), 
they would have been an exceedingly uncomfortable business 
— if that could have been anybody's business, at the house 
of Monseigneur. Military officers destitute of military 
knowledge ; naval officers with no idea of a ship ; civil officers 


112 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


without a notion of affairs ; brazen ecclesiastics, of the worst 
world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser 
lives ; all totally unfit for their several callings, all lying hor- 
ribly in pretending to belong to them, but all nearly or 
remotely of the order of Monseigneur, and therefore foisted 
on all public employments from which anything was to be 
got; these were to be told off by the score and the score. 
People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the 
State, yet equally unconnected with anything that was real, 
or with lives passed in travelling by any straight road to any 
true earthly end, were no less abundant. Doctors who made j 
great fortunes out of dainty remedies for imaginary disorders 
that never existed, smiled upon their courtly patients in the 
ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had dis- 
covered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which 
the State was touched, except the remedy of setting to work 
in earnest to root out a single sin, pouted their distracting 
babble into any ears they could lay hold of, at the reception 
of Monseigneur. Unbelieving Philosophers who were remod- 
elling the world with words, and making card-towers of 
Babel to scale the skies with, talked with Unbelieving 
Chemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals, at 
this wonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur. 
Exquisite gentlemen of the finest breeding, which was at 
that remarkable time — and has been since — to be known 
by its fruits of indifference to every natural subject of human 
interest, were in the most exemplary state of exhaustion, 
at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had these various 
notabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris, that 
the spies among the assembled devotees of Monseigneur — 
forming a goodly half of the polite company — would have 
found it hard to discover among the angels of that sphere 
one solitary wife, who, in her manners and appearance, owned 
to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the mere act of bring- 
ing a troublesome creature into this world — which does not 
go far towards the realisation of the name of mother — there 
was no such thing known to the fashion. Peasant women 


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113 


kept the unfashionable babies close, and brought them up, 
and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and supped as 
at twenty. 

The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature 
in attendance upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room 
were half a dozen exceptional people who had had, for a few 
years, some vague misgiving in them that things in general 
were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting 
them right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a 
fantastic sect of Convulsionists , 0 and were even then consid- 
ering within themselves whether they should foam, rage, 
roar, and turn cataleptic on the spot — thereby setting up a 
highly intelligible finger-post to the Future, for Monseigneur’s 
guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other three who had 
rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a jargon 
about “the Centre of Truth holding that Man had got out 
of the Centre of Truth — which did not need much demon- 
stration — but had not got out of the Circumference, and 
that he was to be kept from flying out of the Circumference, 
and was even to be shoved back into the Centre, by fasting 
and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much 
discoursing with spirits went on — and it did a world of 
good which never became manifest. 

But, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand 
hotel of Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of 
Judgment had only been ascertained to be a dress day, 
everybody there would have been eternally correct. Such 
frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such delicate 
complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant 
swords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of 
smell, would surely keep anything going, for ever and ever. 
The exquisite gentlemen of the finest breeding wore little 
pendent trinkets that chinked as they languidly moved; 
these golden fetters rang like precious little bells ; and what 
with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and 
fine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint 
Antoine 0 and his devouring hunger far away. 


i 


114 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for 
keeping all things in their places. Everybody was dressed 
for a Fancy Ball that was never to leave off. From the 
Palace of the Tuileries , 0 through Monseigneur and the whole 
Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals of Justice, 
and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball 
descended to the Common Executioner : who, in pursuance 
of the charm, was required to officiate “frizzled, powdered, 
in a gold-laced coat, pumps, and white silk stockings.” At 
the gallows and the wheel 0 — the axe was a rarity — Mon- 
sieur Paris , 0 as it was the episcopal mode among his brother 
Professors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, 
to call him, presided in this dainty dress. And who among 
the company at Monseigneur’s reception in that seventeen 
hundred and eightieth year of our Lord, could possibly 
doubt, that a system rooted in a frizzle^ hangman, powdered, 
gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would see 
the very stars out ! 

Monseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens 
and taken his chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of 
Holiests to be thrown open, and issued forth. Then, what 
submission, what cringing and fawning, what servility, what 
abject humiliation ! As to bowing down in body and spirit, 
nothing in that way was left for Heaven — which may have 
been one among other reasons why the worshippers of Mon- 
seigneur never troubled it. 

Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a 
whisper on one happy slave and a wave of the hand on 
another, Monseigneur affably passed through his rooms to 
the remote region of the Circumference of Truth. There, 
Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due 
course of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the 
chocolate sprites, and was seen no more. 

The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a 
little storm, and the precious little bells went ringing down- 
stairs. There was soon but one person left of all the crowd, 
and he, with his hat under his arm and his snuff-box in 


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115 


his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his way 
out. 

“I devote you,” said this person, stopping at the last door 
on his way, and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, 
“to the Devil!” 

With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had 
shaken the dust from his feet, and quietly walked down- 
stairs. 

He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty 
in manner, and with a face like a fine mask. A face of a 
transparent paleness ; every feature in it clearly defined ; one 
set expression on it. The nose, beautifully formed otherwise, 
was very slightly pinched at the top of each nostril. In 
those two compressions, or dints, the only little change that 
the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing 
colour sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated 
and contracted by something like a faint pulsation; 'then, 
they gave a look of treachery, and cruelty, to the whole 
countenance. Examined with attention, its capacity of 
helping such a look was to be found in the line of the mouth, 
and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much too hori- 
zontal and thin ; still, in the effect of the face made, it was a 
handsome face, and. a remarkable one. 

Its owner went down-stairs into the courtyard, got into 
his carriage, and drove away. Not many people had talked 
with him at the reception; he had stood, in a little space 
apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer in his man- 
ner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable 
to him to sec the common people dispersed before his horses, 
and often barely escaping from being run down. His man 
drove as if he were charging an enemy, and the furious reck- 
lessness of the man brought no check into the face, or to the 
lips, of the master. The complaint had sometimes made 
itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age, that,, in 
the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician 
custom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere 
vulgar in a barbarous manner. But, few cared enough for 


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that to think of it a second time, and, in this matter, as in all 
others, the common wretches were left to get out of their 
difficulties as they could. 

With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandon- 
ment of consideration not easy to be understood in these days, 
the carriage dashed through streets and swept round corners, 
with women screaming before it, and men clutching each 
other and clutching children out of its way. At last, swoop- 
ing at a street corner by a fountain, one of its wheels came to 
a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a number 
of voices, and the horses reared and plunged. 

But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably 
would not have stopped; carriages were often known to 
drive on, and leave their wounded behind, and why not? 
But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry, and there 
were twenty hands at the horses’ bridles. 

“What has gone wrong?” said Monsieur, calmly looking 
out. 

A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from 
among the feet of the horses, and had laid it on the basement 
of the fountain, and was down in the mud and wet, howling 
over it like a wild animal. 

“Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!” said a ragged and sub- 
missive man, “it is a child.” 

“Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his 
child?” 

“Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis — it is a pity — yes.” 

The fountain was a little removed ; for the street opened, 
where it was, into a space some ten or twelve yards square. 
As the tall man suddenly got up from the ground, and came 
running at the carriage, Monsieur the Marquis clapped his 
hand for an instant on his sword-hilt. 

“Killed!” shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extend- 
ing both arms at their length above his head, and staring at 
him. “Dead!” 

The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the 
Marquis. There was nothing revealed by the many eyes that 


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117 


looked at him but watchfulness and eagerness; there was 
no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the people say 
anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they 
remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had 
spoken, was flat and tame in its extreme submission. Mon- 
sieur the Marquis ran his eyes over them all, as if they had 
been mere rats come out of their holes. 

He took out his purse. 

“It is extraordinary to me,” said he, “that you people 
cannot take care of yourselves and your children. One or 
the other of you is for ever in the way. How do I know 
what injury you have done my horses. See ! Give him that.” 

He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all 
the heads craned forward that all the eyes might look down 
at it as it fell. The tall man called out again with a most 
unearthly cry, “Dead!” 

He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for 
whom the rest made way. On seeing him, the miserable 
creature fell upon his shoulder, sobbing and crying, and point- 
ing to the fountain, where some women were stooping over 
the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They 
were as silent, however, as the men. 

“I know all, I know all,” said the last comer. “Be a 
brave man, my Gaspard ! It is better for the poor little 
plaything to die so, than to live. It has died in a moment 
without pain. Could it have lived an hour as happily?” 

“You are a philosopher, you there,” said the Marquis, 
smiling. “How do they call you?” 

“They call me Defarge.” 

“Of what trade?” 

“Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.” 

“Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,” said the 
Marquis, throwing him another gold coin, “and spend it as 
you will. The horses there; are they right?” 

Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, 
Monsieur the Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just 
being driven away with the air of a gentleman who had 


118 


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accidentally broke some common thing, and had paid for it, 
and could afford to pay for it ; when his ease was suddenly 
disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its 
floor. 

“Hold!” said Monsieur the Marquis. “Hold the horses! 
Who threw that?” 

He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine 1 
had stood, a moment before ; but the wretched father was 
grovelling on his face on the pavement in that spot, and the 
figure that stood beside him was the figure of a dark stout 
woman, knitting. 

“You dogs!” said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with 
an unchanged front, except as to the spots on his nose: “I 
would ride over any of you very willingly, and exterminate 
you from the earth. If I knew which rascal threw at the car- 
riage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he should 
be crushed under the wheels.” 

So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their 
experience of what such a man could do to them, within the 
law and beyond it, that not a voice, or a hand, or even an eye 
was raised. Among the men, not one. But the woman who 
stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the Marquis 
in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it ; his contemp- 
tuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats ; and 
he leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word “Go on!” 

He was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in 
quick succession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the 
Farmer-General, the Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, 
the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the whole Fancy Ball in a 
bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats had 
crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained look- 
ing on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between 
them and the spectacle, and making a barrier behind which 
they slunk, and through which they peeped. The father 
had long ago taken up his bundle and hidden himself away 
with it, when the women who had tended the bundle while 
it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the run- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


119 


iiing of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball — when the 
one woman who had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted 
on with the steadfastness of Fate. The water of the fountain 
ran, the swift river ran, the day ran into evening, so much life 
in the city ran into death according to rule, time and tide 
waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together in 
their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at 
supper, all things ran their course. 


CHAPTER VIII 

MONSEIGNEUR IN THE COUNTRY 0 

A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not 
abundant. Patches of poor rye where corn should have been, 
patches of poor peas and beans, patches of most coarse 
vegetable substitutes for wheat. On inanimate nature, as 
on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent ten- 
dency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly — 
a dejected disposition to give up, and wither away. 

Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which 
might have been lighter), conducted by four post-horses and 
two postilions, fagged up a steep hill. A blush on the counte- 
nance of Monsieur the Marquis was no impeachment of his 
high breeding ; it was not from within ; it was occasioned by 
an external circumstance beyond his control — the setting 
sun. 

The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage 
when it gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in 
crimson. “It will die out,” said Monsieur the Marquis, 
glancing at his hands, “directly.” 

In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. 
When the heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the 
carriage slid down hill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of 
dust, the red glow departed quickly ; the sun and the Marquis 


120 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


going down together, there was no glow left when the drag 
was taken off. 

But, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a 
little village at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise 
beyond it, a church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, 
and a crag with a fortress on it used as a prison. Round 
upon all these darkening objects as the night drew on, the 
Marquis looked, with the air of one who was coming near home. 

The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, 
poor tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of 
post-horses, poor fountain, all usual poor appointments. It 
had its poor people too. All its people were poor, and many 
of them were sitting at their doors, shredding spare onions 
and the like for supper, while ma!ny were at the fountain, 
washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings 
of the earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what 
made them poor, were not wanting; the tax for the state, 
the tax for the church, the tax for the lord, tax local and 
tax general, were to be paid here and to be paid there, ac- 
cording to solemn inscription in the little village, until the 
wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed. 

Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men 
and women, their choice on earth was stated in the prospect — 
Life on the lowest terms that could sustain it, down in the 
little village under the mill; or captivity and Death in the 
dominant prison on the crag. 

Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of 
his postilions’ whips, which twined snake-like about their 
heads in the evening air, as if he came attended by the Furies, 
Monsieur the Marquis drew up in his travelling carriage at 
the posting-house gate. It was hard by the fountain, and 
the peasants suspended their operations to look at him. He 
looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the 
slow sure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was 
to make the meagreness of Frenchmen an English supersti- 
tion which should survive the truth through the best part of 
a hundred years. 


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121 


Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive 
faces that drooped before him, as the like of himself had 
drooped before Monseigneur of the Court — only the differ- 
ence was, that these faces drooped merely to suffer and not 
to propitiate — when a grizzled mender of the roads joined 
the group. 

“ Bring me hither that fellow ! ” said the Marquis to the 
courier. 

The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows 
closed round to look and listen, in the manner of the people 
at the Paris fountain. 

“I passed you on the road?” 

“ Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed 
on the road.” 

“Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, 
both?” 

“Monseigneur, it is true.” 

“What did you look at, so fixedly?” 

“Monseigneur, I looked at the man.” 

He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed 
under the carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under 
the carriage. 

“What man, pig? And why look there?” 

“Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe 
— the drag.” 

“ Who ? ” demanded the traveller. 

“Monseigneur, the man.” 

“May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you 
call the man? You know all the men of this part of the 
country. Who was he?” 

“Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part 
of the country. Of all the days of my life, I never saw him.” 

“Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?” 

“With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of 
it, Monseigneur. His head hanging over — like this!” 

He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned 
back, with his face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging 


122 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


down ; then recovered himself, fumbled with his cap, and 
made a bow. 

“What was he like?” 

“Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All cov- 
ered with dust, white as a spectre, tall as a spectre ! ” 

The picture produced an immense sensation in the little 
crowd; but all eyes, without comparing notes with other 
eyes, looked at Monsieur the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe 
whether he had any spectre on his conscience. 

“Truly, you did well,” said the Marquis, felicitously sen- 
sible that such vermin were not to ruffle him, “to see a thief 
accompanying my carriage, and not open that great mouth of 
yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur Gabelle!” 

Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other 
taxing functionary united; he had come out with great 
obsequiousness to assist at this examination, and had held 
the examined by the drapery of his arm in an official manner. 

“Bah! Go aside!” said Monsieur Gabelle. 

“Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your 
village to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, 
Gabelle.” 

“Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your 
orders.” 

“Did he run away, fellow? — where is that Accursed?” 

The accursed was already under the carriage with some 
half-dozen particular friends, pointing out the chain with his 
blue cap. Some half-dozen other particular friends promptly 
hauled him out, and presented him breathless to Monsieur 
the Marquis. 

“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the 
drag?” 

“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, 
head first, as a person plunges into the river.” 

“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!” 

The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still 
among the wheels, like sheep ; the wheels turned so suddenly 
that they were lucky to save their skins and bones; they had 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


123 


very little else to save, or they might not have been so 
fortunate. 

The burst with which the carriage started out of the village 
and up the rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of 
the hill. Gradually, it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and 
lumbering upward among the many sweet scents of a summer 
night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer gnats 
circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended 
the points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked 
by the horses; the courier was audible, trotting on ahead 
into the dim distance. 

At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial- 
ground, with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour 
on it; it was a poor figure in wood, done by some inexperi- 
enced rustic carver, but he had studied the figure from the 
life — his own life, maybe — for it was dreadfully spare and 
thin. 

To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long 
been growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was 
kneeling. She turned her head as the carriage came up to 
her, rose quickly, and presented herself at the carriage-door. 

“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigiveur, a petition.” 

With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchange- 
able face, Monseigneur looked out. 

“How, then! What is it? Always petitions ! ” 

“ Monseigneur. For the love of the great God ! My 
husband, the forester.” 

“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same 
with you people. He cannot pay something?” 

“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead;” 

“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?” 

“ Alas, no, Monseigneur ! But he lies yonder, under a little 
heap of poor grass.” 

“Well?” 

“ Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass ! ” 

“Again, well?” 

She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


was one of passionate grief ; by turns she clasped her veinous 
and knotted hands together with wild energy, and laid one 
of them on the carriage-door — tenderly, caressingly, as if 
it had been a human breast, and could be expected to feel 
the appealing touch. 

“ Monseigneur, hear me ! Monseigneur, hear my petition ! 
My husband died of want; so many die of want; so many 
more will die of want.” 

“Again, well? Can I feed them?” 

“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don’t ask it. 
My petition is, that a morsel of stone or wood, with my hus- 
band’s name, may be placed over him to show where he lies. 
Otherwise, the place will be quickly forgotten, it will never 
be found when I am dead of the same malady, I shall be laid 
under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they 
are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. 
Monseigneur ! Monseigneur ! ” 

The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had 
broken into a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, 
she was left far behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by 
the Furies, was rapidly diminishing the league or two of 
distance that remained between him and his chateau. 

The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, 
and rose, as the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, 
and toilworn group at the fountain not far away; to whom 
the mender of roads, with the aid of the blue cap without 
which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his man like a 
spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they 
could bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights 
twinkled in little casements; which lights, as the casements 
darkened, and more stars came out, seemed to have shot up 
into the sky instead of having been extinguished. 

The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many 
overhanging trees, was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that 
time; and the shadow was exchanged for the light of a 
flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door of his 
chateau was opened to him. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


125 


“Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from 
England?” 

“Monseigneur, not yet.” 


CHAPTER IX 

THE GORGON’S HEAD 

It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur 
the Marquis, with a large stone courtyard before it, and two 
stone sweeps of staircase meeting in a stone terrace before 
the principal door. A stony business altogether, with heavy 
stone balustrades, and stone urns, and stone flowers, and 
stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in all directions. 
As if the Gorgon’s head had surveyed it, when it was finished, 
two centuries ago. 

Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, 
flambeau preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently dis- 
turbing the darkness to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl 
in the roof of the great pile of stable building away among 
the trees. All else was so quiet, that the flambeau carried up 
the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great door, 
burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being 
in the open night-air. Other sound than the owl’s voice 
there was none, save the falling of a fountain into its stone 
basin; for, it was one of those dark nights that hold their 
breath by the hour together, and then heave a long low sigh, 
and hold their breath again. 

The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the 
Marquis crossed a hall grim with certain old boar-spears, 
swords, and knives of the chase ; grimmer with certain 
heavy riding-rods and riding- whips, of which many a peasant, 
gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his 
lord was angry. 

Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast 
for the night, Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau- 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


bearer going on before, went up the staircase to a door in a 
corridor. This thrown open, admitted him to his own 
private apartment of three rooms : his bed-chamber and two 
others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, 
great dogs upon the hearths for the burning of wood in winter 
time, and all luxuries befitting the state of a marquis in a 
luxurious age and country. The fashion of the last Louis 
but one, of the line that was never to break — the fourteenth 
Louis — was conspicuous in their rich furniture ; but, it was 
diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old 
pages in the history of France. 

A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms ; 
a round room, in one of the chateau’s four extinguisher- 
topped towers. A small lofty toom, with its window wide 
open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds closed, so that the dark 
night only showed in slight horizontal lines of black, alter- 
nating with their broad lines of stone colour. 

“My nephew,” said the Marquis, glancing at the supper 
preparation; “they said he was not arrived.” 

Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur. 

“Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; never- 
theless, leave the table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter 
of an hour.” 

In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat 
down alone to his sumptuous and choice supper. His chair 
was opposite to the window, and he had taken his soup, and 
was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his lips, when he put it 
down. 

“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with attention 
at the horizontal lines of black and stone colour. 

“Monseigneur? That?” 

“Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.” 

It was done. 

“Well?” 

“Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are 
all that are here.” 

The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


127 


looked out into the vacant darkness, and stood with that 
blank behind him, looking round for instructions. 

“Good,” said the imperturbable master. “Close them 
again.” 

That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his 
supper. He was half way through it, when he again stopped 
with his glass in his hand, hearing the sound of wheels. It 
came on briskly, and came up to the front of the chateau. 

“Ask who is arrived.” 

It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few 
leagues behind Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had 
diminished the distance rapidly, but not so rapidly as to 
come up with Monseigneur on the road. He had heard of 
Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him. 

He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited 
him then and there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In 
a little while he came. He had been known in England as 
Charles Darnay. 9 

Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did 
not shake hands. 

“You left Paris yesterday, sir ? ” he said to Monseigneur, as 
he took his seat at table. 

“Yesterday. And you?” 

“I come direct.” 

“From London?” 

“Yes.” 

“You have been a long time coming,” said the Marquis, 
with a smile. 

“On the contrary; I come direct.” 

“Pardon me ! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a 
long time intending the journey.” 

“I have been detained by” — the nephew stopped a 
moment in his answer — “various business.” 

“Without doubt,” said the polished uncle. 

So long as a servant was present, no other words passed 
between them. When coffee had been served and they were 
alone together, the nephew, looking at the uncle and meeting 


128 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


the eyes of the face that was like a fine mask, opened a 
conversation. 

“I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the 
object that took me away. It carried me into great and un- 
expected peril ; but it is a sacred object, and if it had carried 
me to death I hope it would have sustained me.” 

“Not to death,” said the uncle; “it is not necessary to 
say, to death.” 

“I doubt, sir,” returned the nephew, “whether, if it had 
carried me to the utmost brink of death, you would have 
cared to stop me there.” 

The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of 
the fine straight lines in the cruei‘ face, looked ominous as to 
that ; the uncle made a graceful gesture of protest, which 
was so clearly a slight form of good breeding that it was not 
reassuring. 

“Indeed, sir,” pursued the nephew, “for anything I 
know, you i$ay have expressly worked to give a more sus- 
picious appearance to the suspicious circumstances that sur- 
rounded me.” 

“No, no, no,” said the uncle, pleasantly. 

“But, however that may be,” resumed the nephew, glanc- 
ing at him with deep distrust, “I know that your diplomacy 
would stop me by any means, and would know no scruple as 
to means.” 

“My friend, I told you so,” said the uncle, with a fine pul- 
sation in the two marks. “Do me the favour to recall that 
I told you so, long ago.” 

“I recall it.” 

“Thank you,” said the Marquis — very sweetly indeed. 

His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical 
instrument. 

“In effect, sir,” pursued the nephew, “I believe it to be 
at once your bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has 
kept me out of a prison in France here.” 

“I do not quite understand,” returned the uncle, sipping 
his coffee. “Dare I ask you to explain?” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


129 


“I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, 
and had not been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, 
a letter de cachet 0 would have sent me to some fortress in- 
definitely.” 

“ It is possible,” said the uncle, with great calmness. “ For 
the honour of the family, I could even resolve to incommode 
you to that extent. Pray excuse me ! ” 

“I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day 
before yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,” observed the 
nephew. 

“I would not say happily, my friend,” returned the uncle, 
with refined politeness ; “ I would not be sure of that. A good 
opportunity for consideration, surrounded by the advan- 
tages of solitude, might influence your destiny to far greater 
advantage than you influence it for yourself. But it is use- 
less to discuss the question. I am, as you say, at a disadvan- 
tage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle 
aids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours 
that might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now 
by interest and importunity. They are sought by so many, 
and they are granted (comparatively) to so few ! It used not 
to be so, but France in all such things is changed for the worse. 
Our not remote ancestors held the right of life and death over 
the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such dogs 
have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my 
bedroom), one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on 
the spot for professing some insolent delicacy respecting his 
daughter — his daughter ? We have lost many privileges ; 
a new philosophy has become the mode ; and the assertion 
of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as to 
say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All 
very bad, very bad ! ” 

The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook 
his head ; as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be 
of a country still containing himself, that great means of 
regeneration. 

“ We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and 


130 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


in the modern time also,” said the nephew, gloomily, “that 
I believe our name to be more detested than any name in 
France.” 

“Let us hope so,” said the uncle. “Detestation of the 
high is the involuntary homage of the low.” 

“There is not,” pursued the nephew, in his former tone, “a 
face I can look at, in all this country round about us, which 
lobks at me with any deference on it but the dark deference 
of fear and slavery.” 

“A compliment,” said the Marquis, “to the grandeur of 
the family, merited by the manner in which the family has 
sustained its grandeur. Hah ! ” And he took another 
gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly crossed his legs. 

But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, 
covered his eyes thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, 
the fine mask looked at him sideways with a stronger concen- 
tration of keenness, closeness, and dislike, than was corn- 
portable with its wearer’s assumption of indifference. 

“Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark 
deference of fear and slavery, my friend,” observed the 
Marquis, “will keep the dogs obedient to the whip, as long 
as this roof,” looking up to it, “shuts out the sky.” 

That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If 
a picture of the chateau as it was to be a vSry few years 
hence, and of fifty like it as they too were to be a very few 
years hence, could have been shown to him that night, he 
might have been at a loss to claim his own from the ghastly, 
fire-charred, plunder-wrecked ruins. As for the roof he 
vaunted, he might have found that shutting out the sky in a 
new way — to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies 
into which its lead was fired, out of the barrels of a hundred 
thousand muskets. 

“Meanwhile,” said the Marquis, “I will preserve the 
honour and repose of the family, if you will not. But you 
must be fatigued. Shall we terminate our conference for the 
night?” 

“A moment more.” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


131 


“An hour, if you please.” 

“Sir,” said the nephew, “we have done wrong, and are 
reaping the fruits of wrong.” 

“We have done wrong?” repeated the Marquis, with an 
inquiring smile, and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, 
then to himself. 

“Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of 
so much account to both of us, in such different ways. Even 
in my father's time, we did a world of wrong, injuring every 
human creature who came between us and our pleasure, 
whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time, 
when it is equally yours ? Can I separate my father's twin- 
brother, joint inheritor, and next successor, from himself?” 

“Death has done that !” said the Marquis. 

“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a 
system that is frightful to me, responsible for it, but power- 
less in it; seeking to execute the last request of my dear 
mother's lips, and obey the last look of my dear mother's eyes, 
which implored me to have mercy and to redress; and tor- 
tured by seeking assistance and power in vain.” 

“Seeking them from me, my nephew,” said the Marquis, 
touching him on the breast with his forefinger — they were 
now standing by the hearth — “you will for ever seek them 
in vain, be assured.” 

Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was 
cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood 
looking quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. 
Once again he touched him on the breast, as though his finger 
were the fine point of a small sword, with which, in delicate 
finesse, he ran him through the body, and said, 

“My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under 
which .1 have lived.” 

When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, 
and put his box in his pocket. 

“Better to be a rational creature,” he added then, after 
ringing a small bell on the table, “and accept your natural 
destiny. But you are lost, Monsieur Charles, I see.” 


132 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“This property and France are lost to me,” said the 
nephew, sadly; “I renounce them.” 

“Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but 
is the property ? It is scarcely worth mentioning ; but, is it 
yet?” 

“ I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If 
it passed to me from you, to-morrow ” 

“Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.” 

“ — or twenty years hence ” 

“You do me too much honour,” said the Marquis ; “still, 
I prefer that supposition.” 

“ — I would abandon it, and li've otherwise and elsewhere. 
It is little to relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery 
and ruin!” 

“Hah!” said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious 
room. 

“To the eye it is fair enough, here ; but seen in its integrity, 
under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower 
of waste, mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, op- 
pression, hunger, nakedness, and suffering.” 

“Hah!” said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied man- 
ner. 

“If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands 
better qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) 
from the weight that drags it down, so that the miserable 
people who cannot leave it and who have been long wrung to 
the last point of endurance, may; in another generation, suffer 
less ; but it is not for me. There is a curse on it, and on all 
this land.” 

“And you?” said the uncle. “Forgive my curiosity; 
do you, under your new philosophy, graciously intend to 
live?” 

“I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even 
with nobility at their backs, may have to do some day 
— work.” 

“In England, for example?” 

“ Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this coun- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES • 


133 


try. The family name can suffer from me in no other, for I 
bear it in no other.” 

The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed- 
chamber to be lighted. It now shone brightly, through the 
door of communication. The Marquis looked that way, and 
listened for the retreating step of his valet. 

“England is very attractive to you, seeing how indiffer- 
ently you have prospered there,” he observed then, turning 
his calm face to his nephew with a smile. 

“I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am 
sensible I may be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my 
Refuge.” 

“They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge 
of many. You know a compatriot who has found a Refuge 
there ? A Doctor ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“With a daughter?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes,” said the Marquis. “You are fatigued. Good 
night ! ” 

As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a 
secrecy in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery 
to those words, which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew 
forcibly. At the same time, the thin straight lines of the 
setting of the eyes, and the thin straight lips, and the markings 
in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that looked handsomely 
diabolic. 

“Yes,” repeated the Marquis. “A Doctor with a 
daughter. Yes. So commences the new philosophy ! You 
are fatigued. Good night ! ” 

It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any 
stone face outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of 
his. The nephew looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the 
door. 

“Good night !” said the uncle. “I look to the pleasure of 
seeing you again in the morning. Good repose ! Light 
Monsieur my nephew to his chamber there ! — And burn 


134 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,” he added to 
himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned 
his valet to his own bedroom. 

The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked 
to and fro in his loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself 
gently for sleep, that hot still night. Rustling about the room, 
his softly-slippered feet making no noise on the floor, he 
moved like a refined tiger: — looked like some enchanted 
marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose 
periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, 
or just coming on. 

He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, 
looking again at the scraps of the day's journey that came 
unbidden into his mind ; the slow toil up the hill at sunset, 
the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the prison on the crag, 
the little village in the hollow, the peasants at the fountain, 
and the mender of roads with, his blue cap pointing out the 
chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the 
Paris fountain, the little bundle lying on the step, the women 
bending over it, and the tall man with his arms up, crying, 
“Dead!” 

“ I am cool now,” said Monsieur the Marquis, “and may go 
to bed.” 

So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he 
let his thin gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the 
night break its silence with a long sigh as he composed himself 
to sleep. 

The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the 
black night for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, 
the horses in the stables rattled at their racks, the dogs 
barked, and the owl made a noise with very little resemblance 
in it to the noise conventionally assigned to the owl by men- 
poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures 
hardly ever to say what is set down for them. 

For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, 
lion and human, stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness 
lay on all the landscape, dead darkness added its own hush 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


135 


to the hushing dust on all the roads. The burial-place had 
got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass were undis- 
tinguishable from one another ; the figure on the Cross might 
have come down, for anything that coulcl be seen of it. In 
the village, taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, 
perhaps, of banquets, as the starved usually do, and of ease 
and rest, as the driven slave and the yoked ox may, its lean 
inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and freed. 

The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and 
the fountain at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard — 
both melting away, like the minutes that were falling from 
the spring of Time — through three dark hours. Then, the 
grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light, and the 
eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened. 

Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops 
of the still trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In 
the glow, the water of the chateau fountain seemed to turn 
to blood, and the stone faces crimsoned. The carol of the 
birds was loud and high, and, on the weather-beaten sill of 
the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur the Mar- 
quis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might. 
At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, 
with open mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe- 
stricken. 

Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the 
village. Casement windows opened, crazy doors were un- 
barred, and people came forth shivering — chilled, as yet, 
by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely lightened toil 
of the day among the village population. Some, to the 
fountain ; some, to the fields ; men and women here, to dig 
and delve; men and women there, to see to the poor live 
stock, and lead the bony cows out, to such pasture as could 
be found by the roadside. In the church and at the Cross, 
a kneeling figure or two ; attendant on the latter prayers, 
the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its 
foot. 

The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke 


136 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


gradually and surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and 
knives of the chase had been reddened as of old ; then, had 
gleamed trenchant # in the morning sunshine; now, doors and 
windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked 
round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring 
in at doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated 
windows, dogs pulled hard at their chains, and reared im- 
patient to be loosed. 

All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, 
and the return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the 
great bell of the chateau, nor the running up and down the 
stairs ; nor the hurried figures op the terrace ; nor the booting 
and tramping here and there and everywhere, nor the quick 
saddling of horses and riding away? . 

What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender 
of roads, already at work on the hill-top beyond the village, 
with his day’s dinner (not much to carry) lying in a bundle 
that it was worth no crow’s while to peck at, on a heap of 
stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it to a dis- 
tance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? 
Whether or no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morn- 
ing, as if for his life, down the hill, knee-high in. dust, and 
never stopped till he got to the fountain. 

All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing 
about in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but 
showing no other emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. 
The led cows, hastily brought in and tethered to anything 
that would hold them, were looking stupidly on, or lying 
down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their 
trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted 
saunter. Some of the people of the chateau, and some of 
those of the posting-house, and all the taxing authorities, 
were armed more or less, and were crowded on the other side 
of the little street in a purposeless way, that was highly 
fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had 
penetrated into the midst of a group of fifty particular 
friends, and’ was smiting himself in the breast with his blue 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


137 


cap. What did all this portend, and what portended the 
swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind a servant on 
horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle 
(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new 
version of the German ballad of Leonora 0 ? 

It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at 
the chateau. 

The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, 
and had added the one stone face wanting; the stone face 
for which it had waited through about two hundred years. 

It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was 
like a fine mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petri- 
fied. Driven home into the heart of the stone figure attached 
to it, was a knife. Round its hilt was a frill of paper, on 
which was scrawled : 

“ Drive him fast to his tomb. This , from Jacques.” 


CHAPTER X 

TWO PROMISES 

More months, to the number of twelve, had come and 
gone, and Mr. Charles Darnay was established in England 
as a higher teacher of the French language who was conver- 
sant with French literature. In thi§ age, he would have 
been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read 
with young men who could find any leisure and interest for 
the study of a living tongue spoken all over the world, and he 
cultivated a taste for its stores of knowledge and fancy. He 
could write of them, besides, in sound English, and render 
them into sound English. Such masters were not at that 
time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that 
were to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined 
nobility had dropped out of Tellson’s ledgers, to turn cooks 
and carpenters. As a tutor, whose attainments made the 


138 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


student’s way unusually pleasant and profitable, and as an 
elegant translator who brought something to his work besides 
mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became 
known and encouraged. He was well acquainted^ moreover, 
with the circumstances of his country, and those were of 
ever-growing interest. So, with great perseverance and 
untiring industry, he prospered. 

In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of 
gold, nor to lie on beds of roses ; if he had had any such ex- 
alted expectation, he would not have prospered. He had 
expected labour, and he found it, and did it, and made the best 
of it. In this, his prosperity Consisted. 

A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, 
where he read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated 
smuggler who drove a contraband trade in European lan- 
guages, instead of conveying Greek and Latin through the 
Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in London. 

Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, 
to these days when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the 
world of a man has invariably gone one way — Charles 
Darnay’s way — the way of the love of a woman. 

He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. 
He had never heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound 
of her compassionate voice ; he had never seen a face so ten- 
derly beautiful, as hers when it was confronted with his own 
on the edge of the grave that had been dug for him. But, 
he had not yet spoken to her on the subject ; the assassina- 
tion at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving 
water and the long, long, dusty roads — the solid stone 
chateau which had itself become the mere mist of a dream — 
had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so much 
as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his 
heart. 

That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was 
again a summer day when, lately arrived in London from his 
college occupation, he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, 
bent on seeking an opportunity of opening his mind to 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


139 


Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer day, and he 
knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross. 

He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. 
The energy which had at once supported him under his old 
sufferings and aggravated their sharpness, had been gradually 
restored to him. He was now a very energetic man indeed, 
with great firmness of purpose, strength of resolution, and 
vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was sometimes 
a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the exer- 
cise of his other recovered faculties ; but, this had never been 
frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare. 

He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of 
fatigue with ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now 
entered Charles Darnay, at sight of whom he laid aside his 
book and held out his hand. 

“Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been 
counting on your return these three or four days past. Mr. 
Stryver and Sydney Carton were both here yesterday, and 
both made you out to be more than due.” 

“I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,” he 
answered, a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as 
to the Doctor. “Miss Manette ” 

“Is well,” said the Doctor, as he stopped short, “and your 
return will delight us all. She has gone out on some house- 
hold matters, but will soon be home.” 

“ Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the 
opportunity of her being from home, to beg to speak to you.” 

There was a blank silence. 

“ Yes ? ” said the Doctor, with evident constraint. “ Bring 
your chair here, and speak on.” 

He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speak- 
ing on less easy. 

“I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so 
intimate here,” so he at length began, “for some year and a 
half, that I hope the topic on which I am about to touch may 
not ” 

He was stayed by the Doctor’s putting out his hand to stop 


140 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


him. When he had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing 
it back : 

“Is Lucie the topic?” 

“She is.” 

“It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very 
hard for me to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, 
Charles Darnay.” 

“ It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep 
love, Doctor Manette ! ” he said deferentially. 

There was another blank silence before her father rejoined : 

“I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.” 

His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, 
that it originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, 
that Charles Darnay hesitated. 

“Shall I go on, sir?” 

Another blank. 

“Yes, go on.” 

“You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot 
know how earnestly I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without 
knowing my secret heart, and the hopes and fears and anx- 
ieties with which it has long been laden. Dear Doctor 
Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly, disinterestedly, 
devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love her. 
You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!” 

The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes 
bent on the ground. At the last words, he stretched out his 
hand again, hurriedly, and cried: 

“Not that, sir ! Let. that be ! I adjure you, do not recall . 
that !” 

His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in 
Charles Darnay’s ears long after he had ceased, hie motioned 
with the hand he had extended, and it seemed to be an appeal 
to Darnay to pause. The latter so received it, and remained 
silent. 

“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, 
after some moments. “ I do not doubt your loving Lucie; 
you may be satisfied of it.” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


141 


He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, 
or raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his 
white hair overshadowed his face : 

“Have you spoken to Lucie ?” 

“No.” 

“Nor written?” 

“Never.” 

“It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your 
self-denial is to be referred to your consideration for her 
father. Her father thanks you.” 

He offered his hand ; but his eyes did not go with it. 

“I know,” said Darnay, respectfully, “how can I fail to 
know, Doctor Manette, I who have seen you together from 
day to day, that between you and Miss Manette there is an 
affection so unusual, so touching, so belonging to the circum- 
stances in which it has been nurtured, that it can have few 
parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and child. 
I know, Doctor Manette — how can I fail to know — that, 
mingled with the affection and duty of a daughter who has 
become a woman, there is, in her heart, towards you, all the 
love and reliance of infancy itself. I know that, as in her 
childhood she had no parent, so she is now devoted to you 
with all the constancy and fervour of her present years and 
character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the 
early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly 
welf that if you had been restored to her from the world be- 
yond this life, you could hardly be invested, in her sight, 
with a more sacred character than that in which you are 
always with her. I know that when she is clinging to you, 
the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round 
your neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves 
her mother at her own age, sees and loves you at my age, 
loves her mother broken-hearted, loves you through your 
dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I have known 
this, night and day, since I have known you in your 
home.” 

Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breath- 


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mg was a little quickened ; but he repressed all other signs of 
agitation. 

“Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always see- 
ing her and you with this hallowed light about you, I have 
forborne, and forborne, as long as it was in the nature of man 
to do it. I have felt, and do even now feel, that to bring my 
love — even mine — between you, is to touch your history 
with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her. 
Heaven is my witness that I love her!” 

“I believe it,” answered her father, mournfully. “I have 
thought so before now. I believe it.” 

“But, do not believe,” said Darnay, upon whose ear 
the mournful voice struck with a reproachful sound, “that 
if my fortune were so cast as that, being one day so happy 
as to make her my wife, I must at any time put any separation 
between her and you, I could or would breathe a word of 
what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hope- 
less, I should know it to be a baseness. If I had any such 
possibility, even at a remote distance of years, harboured 
in my thoughts, and hidden in my heart — if it ever had been 
there — if it ever could be there — I could not now touch 
this honoured hand.” 

He laid his own upon it as he spoke. 

“No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile 
from France; like you, driven from it by its distractions, 
oppressions, and miseries; like you, striving to live away 
from it by my own exertions, and trusting in a happier future ; 
I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your life and 
home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide 
with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend ; 
but to come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a 
thing can be.” 

His touch still lingered on her father’s hand. Answering 
the touch for a moment, but not coldly, her father rested 
his hands upon the arms of his chair, and looked up for 
the first time since the beginning of the conference. A 
struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


143 


occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and 
dread. 

“You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, 
that I thank you with all my heart, and will open all my heart 
— or nearly so. Have you any reason to believe that Lucie 
loves you?” 

“None. As yet, none.” 

“ Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may 
at once ascertain that, with my knowledge?” 

“Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it 
for weeks; I might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that 
hopefulness to-morrow.” 

“Do you seek any guidance from me?” 

“I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you 
might have it in your power, if you should deem it right, to 
give me some.” 

“Do you seek any promise from me?” 

“I do seek that.” 

“What is it?” 

“I well understand that, without you, I could have no 
hope. I well understand that, even if Miss Manette held me 
at this moment in her innocent heart — do not think I have 
the presumption to assume so much — I could retain no place 
in it against her love for her father.” 

“If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is in- 
volved in it?” 

“ I understand equally well, that a word from her father in 
any suitor’s favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. 
For which reason, Doctor Manette,” said Darnay, modestly 
but firmly, “I would not ask that word, to save my life.” 

“I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of 
close love, as well as out of wide division ; in the former case, 
they are subtle and delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My 
daughter Lucie is, in this one respect, such a mystery to me ; 
I can make no guess at the state of her heart.” 

“May I ask, sir, if you think she is ” As he hesitated, 

her father supplied the rest. 


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“Is sought by any other suitor?” 

“It is what I meant to say.” 

Her father considered a little before he answered : 

“You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver 
is here too, occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by 
one of these.” 

“Or both,” said Darnay. 

“I had not thought of both; I should not think either, 
likely. You want a promise from me. Tell me what 
it is.” 

“It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any 
time, on her own part, such a confidence as I have ventured 
to lay before you, you will bear testimony to what I have 
said, and to your belief in it. I hope you may be able to 
think so well of me, as to urge no influence against me. I 
say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. 
The condition on which I ask it, and which you have an 
undoubted right to require, I will observe immediately.” 

“I give the promise,” said the Doctor, “without any con- 
dition. I believe your object to be, purely and truthfully, 
as you have stated it. I believe your intention is to per- 
petuate, and not to weaken, the ties between me and my 
other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me that 
you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to 
you. If there were — Charles Darnay, if there were ” 

The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their 
hands were joined as the Doctor spoke : 

“ — any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything 
whatsoever, new or old, against the man she really loved — 
the direct responsibility thereof not lying on his head — 
they should all be obliterated for her sake. She is every- 
thing to me; more to me than suffering, more to me than 
wrong, more to me Well ! This is idle talk.” 

So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and 
so strange his fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that 
Darnay felt his own hand turn cold in the hand that slowly 
released and dropped it. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


145 


‘You said something to me/’ said Doctor Manette, 
breaking into a smile. “What was it you said to me?” 

He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered 
having spoken of a condition. Relieved as his mind re- 
verted to that, he answered : 

“Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full 
confidence on my part. My present name, though but 
slightly changed from my mother’s, is not, as you will remem- 
ber, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and why I 
am in England.” 

“ Stop ! ” said the Doctor of Beauvais. 

“ I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, 
and have no secret from you.” 

“Stop !” 

For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his 
ears; for another instant, even had his two hands laid on 
Darnay’s lips. 

“Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should 
prosper, if Lucie should love you, you shall tell me on your 
marriage morning. Do you promise?” 

“Willingly.” 

“Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it 
is better she should not see us together to-night. Go ! God 
bless you ! ” 

It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was 
an hour later and darker when Lucie came home ; she 
hurried into the room alone — for Miss Pross had gone 
straight up-stairs — and was surprised to find his reading- 
chair empty. 

“My father !” she called to him. “Father dear !” 

Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammer- 
ing sound in his bedroom. Passing lightly across the inter- 
mediate room, she looked in at his door and came running 
back frightened, crying to herself, with her blood all chilled, 
“What shall I do! What shall I do!” 

Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, 
and tapped at his door, and softly called to him. The noise 


146 


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ceased at the sound of her voice, and he presently came out 
to her, and they walked up and down together for a long 
time. 

She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that 
night. He slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, 
and his old unfinished work, were all as usual. 


CHAPTER XI 

A COMPANION PICTURE 


o. 


“Sydney/' said Mr. Stryver, on that selfsame night, or 
morning, to his jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I 
have something to say to you." 

Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the 
night before, and the night before that, and a good many 
nights in succession, making a grand clearance among Mr. 
Stryver’s papers before the setting in of the long vacation. 
The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver arrears were 
handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until 
November should come with its fogs atmospheric and fogs 
legal, and bring grist to the mill again. 

Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so 
much application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling 
to pull him through the night; a correspondingly extra 
quantity of wine had preceded the towelling ; and he was in 
a very damaged condition, as he now pulled his turban off 
and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at 
intervals for the last six hours. 

“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?" said Stryver 
the portly, with his hands in his waistband, glancing round 
from the sofa where he lay on his back. 

“I am." 

“ Now, look here ! I am going to tell you something that 
will rather surprise you, and that perhaps will make you 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


147 


think me not quite as shrewd as you usually do think me. I 
intend to marry.” 

“ Do you?” 

“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?” 

“I don’t feel disposed to say much. Who is she?” 

“Guess ” 

“Do I know her?” 

“Guess.” 

“I am not going to guess, at five o’clock in the morning, 
with my brains frying and sputtering in my head. If you 
want me to guess, you must ask me to dinner.” 

“Well then, I’ll tell you,” said Stryver, coming slowly into 
a sitting posture. “ Sydney, I rather despair of making myself 
intelligible to you, because you are such an insensible dog.” 

“And you,” returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, 
“are such a sensitive and poetical spirit.” 

“Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, “though 
I don’t prefer any claim to being the soul of Romance (for 
I hope I know better), still I am a tenderer sort of fellow 
than you.” 

“You are a luckier, if you mean that.” 

“ I don’t mean that. I mean I am a man of more — 
more ” 

“Say gallantry, while you are about it,” suggested Carton. 

“ Well ! I’ll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a 
man,” said Stryver, inflating himself at his friend as he 
made the punch, “who cares more to be agreeable, who takes 
more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how to be 
agreeable, in a woman’s society, than you do.” 

“Go on,” said Sydney Carton. 

“No; but before I go on,” said Stryver, shaking his head 
in his bullying way, “I’ll have this out with you. You’ve 
been at Doctor Manette’s house as much as I have, or more 
than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your morose- 
ness there ! Your manners have been of that silent and 
sullen and hang-dog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I 
have been ashamed of you, Sydney!” 


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“It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice 
at the bar, to be ashamed of anything/' returned Sydney; 
“you ought to be much obliged to me." 

“You shall not get off in that way," rejoined Stryver, 
shouldering the rejoinder at him; “no, Sydney, it's my duty 
to tell you — and I tell you to your face to do you good — 
that you are a de-vilish ill-conditioned fellow in that sort of 
society. You are a disagreeable fellow." 

Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and 
laughed. 

“Look at me!" said Stryver, squaring himself; “I have 
less need to make myself agreeable than you have, being more 
independent in circumstances. Why do I do it?" 

“I never saw you do it yet," muttered Carton. 

“I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And 
look at me! I get on." 

“You don’t get on with your account of your matrimonial 
intentions," answered Carton, with a careless air; “I wish 
you would keep to that. As to me — will you never under- 
stand that I am incorrigible?" 

He asked the question with some appearance of scorn. 

“ You have no business to be incorrigible," was his friend's 
answer, delivered in no very soothing tone. 

“I have no business to be, at all, that I know of," said 
Sydney Carton. “Who is the lady?" 

“Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you 
uncomfortable, Sydney," said Mr. Stryver, preparing him 
with ostentatious friendliness for the disclosure he was about 
to make, “ because I know you don't mean half you say ; and 
if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I make 
this little preface, because you once mentioned the young 
lady to me in slighting terms." 

“I did?" 

“Certainly; and in these chambers." 

Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his com- 
placent friend ; drank his punch and looked at his complacent 
friend. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


149 


“You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired 
doll. The young lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a 
fellow of any sensitiveness or delicacy of feeling in that kind 
of way, Sydney, I might have been a little resentful of your 
employing such a designation; but you are not. You want 
that sense altogether ; therefore I am no more annoyed 
when I think of the expression, than I should be annoyed 
by a man's opinion of a picture of mine, who had no eye for 
pictures : or of a piece of music of mine, who had no ear for 
music." 

Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it 
by bumpers, looking at his friend. 

“Now you know all about it, Syd," said Mr. Stryver. 
“ I don't care about fortune : she is a charming creature, 
and I have made up my mind to please myself: on the 
whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She will have 
in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man, 
and a man of some distinction : it is a piece of good fortune 
for her, but she is worthy of good fortune. Are you as- 
tonished?" 

Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should 
I be astonished?" 

“You approve?" 

Carton, still Vlrinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should 
I not approve?" 

“Well !" said his friend Stryver, “you take it more easily 
than I fancied you would, and are less mercenary on my 
behalf than I thought you would be ; though, to be sure, you 
know well enough by this time that your ancient chum is a 
man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had enough 
of this style of life, with no other as a change from it ; I feel 
that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he 
feels inclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), 
and I feel that Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and 
will always do me credit. So I have made up my mind. 
And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to say a word to you 
about your prospects. You are in a bad way, you know; 


150 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


you really are in a bad way. You don’t know the value of 
money, you live hard, you’ll knock up one of these days, and 
be ill and poor; you really ought to think about a nurse.” 

The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him 
look twice as big as he was, and four times as offensive. 

“Now, let me recommend you,” pursued Stryver, “to 
look it in the face. I have looked it in the face, in my differ- 
ent way; look it in the face, you, in your different way. 
Marry. Provide * somebody to take care of you. Never 
mind your having no enjoyment of women’s society, nor 
understanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. 
Find out some respectable woman with a little property — 
somebody in the landlady way, or lodging-letting way — 
and marry her, against a rainy day. That’s the kind of 
thing for you. Now think of it, Sydney.” 

“I’ll think of it,” said Sydney. 


CHAPTER XII 

THE FELLOW OF DELICACY 

Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnani 
mous bestowal of good fortune on the Doctor’s daughter, 
resolved to make her happiness known to her before he left 
town for the Long Vacation. After some mental debating 
of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as 
well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could 
then arrange at their leisure whether he should give her his 
hand a week or two before Michaelmas Term, or in the little 
Christmas vacation between it and Hilary. 

As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, 
but clearly saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the 
jury on substantial worldly grounds — the only grounds ever 
worth taking into account — it was a plain case, and had not 
a weak spot in it. He called himself for the plaintiff, there 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


151 


was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for the defendant 
threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to consider. 
After trying it, Stryver, C. J.,° was satisfied that no plainer 
case could be. 

Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation 
with a formal proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall 
Gardens 0 : that failing, to Ranelagh 0 ; that unaccountably 
failing too, it behoved him to present himself in Soho, and 
there declare his noble mind. 

Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way 
from the Temple, while the bloom of the Long Vacation’s 
infancy was still upon it. Anybody who had seen him pro- 
jecting himself into Soho while he was yet on Saint Dun- 
stan’s side 0 of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way 
along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, 
might have seen how safe and strong he was. 

His way taking him past Tellson’s, and he both banking 
at Tellson’s and knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend 
of the Manettes, it entered Mr. Stryver ’s mind to enter the 
bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness of the Soho 
horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle 
in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two 
ancient cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back 
closet where Mr. Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, 
with perpendicular iron bars to his window as if that were 
ruled for figures too, and everything under the clouds were 
a sum. 

“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope 
you are well 

It was Stryver’s grand peculiarity that he always seemed 
too big for any place, or space. He was so much too big for 
Tellson’s, that old clerks in distant corners looked up with 
looks of remonstrance, as though he squeezed them against 
the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading the paper 
quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if the 
Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat. 
The discreet Mr, Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice 


152 


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he would recommend under the circumstances, “How do you 
do, Mr. Stryver? How do you do, sir?” and shook hands. 
There was a peculiarity in his manner of shaking hands, 
always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson’s who shook hands 
with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He 
shook in a self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson 
and Co. 

“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. 
Lorry, in his business character. 

“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, 
Mr. Lorry ; I have come for a private word.” 

“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, 
while his eye strayed to the House afar off. 

“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms con- 
fidentially on the desk : whereupon, although it was a large 
double one, there appeared to be not half desk enough for 
him: “I am going to make an offer of myself in marriage 
to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.” 

“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and 
looking at his visitor dubiously. 

“ Oh dear me, sir ? ” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “ Oh 
dear you, sir? What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?” 

“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of 
course, friendly and appreciative, and that it does you the 
greatest credit, and — in short, my meaning is everything 

you could desire. But — really, you know, Mr. Stryver ” 

Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest 
manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, 
internally, “you know there really is so much too much of 
you !” 

“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his conten- 
tious hand, opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, 
“if I understand you, Mr. Lorry, I’ll be hanged !” 

Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means 
towards that end, and bit the feather of a pen. 

“D — n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I 
not eligible?” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


153 


“ Oh dear yes ! Yes. Oh yes, you’re eligible ! ” said Mr. 
Lorry. “ If you say eligible, you are eligible.” 

“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver. 

“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” 
said Mr. Lorry. 

“And advancing?” 

“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, 
delighted to be able to make another admission, “nobody 
can doubt that.” 

“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” 
demanded Stryver, perceptibly crestfallen. 

“Well! I Were you going there now?” asked Mr. 

Lorry. 

“ Straight ! ” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the 
desk. 

“Then I think I wouldn’t, if I was you.” 

“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I’ll put you in a corner,” 
forensically shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of 
business and bound to have a reason. State your reason. 
Why wouldn’t you go?” 

“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn’t go on such an 
object without having some cause to believe that I should 
succeed.” 

“D — n me !” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.” 

Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at 
the angry Stryver. 

“Here’s a man of business — a man of years — a man 
of experience — in a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having 
summed up three leading reasons for complete success, he 
says there’s no reason at all! Says it with his head on!” 
Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have 
been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head 
off. 

“ When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young 
lady ; and when I speak of causes and reasons to make success 
probable, I speak of causes and reasons that will tell as such 
with the young lady. The young lady, my good sir,” said 


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Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the young lady. 
The young lady goes before all.” 

“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, 
squaring his elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that 
the young lady at present in question is a mincing Fool?” 

“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said 
Mr. Lorry, reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful 
word of that young lady from any lips; and that if I knew 
any man — which I hope I do not — whose taste was so 
coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could 
not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that 
young lady at this desk, not even Tellson’s should prevent 
my giving him a piece of my mind.” 

The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put 
Mr. Stryver ’s blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it 
was his turn to be angry; Mr. Lorry’s veins, methodical as 
their courses could usually be, were in no better state now 
it was his turn. 

“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. 
“Pray let there be no mistake about it.” 

Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and 
then stood hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which 
probably gave him the toothache. He broke the awkward 
silence by saying : 

“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You delib- 
erately advise me not to go up to Soho and offer myself — 
myself, Stryver of the King’s Bench bar?” 

“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it 
correctly.” 

“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver -with a vexed 
laugh, “ that this — ha, ha ! — beats everything past, present, 
and to come.” 

“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man 
of business, I am not justified in saying anything about this 
matter, for, as a man of business, I know nothing of it. But, 


A TALK OF TWO CITIES 


155 


as an old fellow, who has carried Miss Manette in his arms, 
who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and of her father 
too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have 
spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. 
Now, you think I may not be right ?" 

“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can't undertake 
to find third parties in common sense ; I can only find it for 
myself. I suppose sense in certain quarters ; you suppose 
mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It's new to me, but 
you are right, I dare say." 

“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise 
for myself. And understand me, sir," said Mr. Lorry, 
quickly flushing again, “I will not — not even at Tellson's — 
have it characterised for me by any gentleman breathing." 

“There! I beg your pardon!" said Stryver. 

“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about 
to say : — it might be painful to you to find yourself mistaken, 
it might be painful to Doctor Manette to have the task of being 
explicit with you, it might be very painful to Miss Manette 
to have the task of being explicit with you. You know the 
terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand 
with the family. If you please, committing you in no way, 
representing you in no way, I will undertake to correct my 
advice by the exercise of a little new observation and judg- 
ment expressly brought to bear upon it. If you should then 
be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its soundness for 
yourself ; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied with 
it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what 
is best spared. What do you say?" 

“How long would you keep me in town?" 

“ Oh ! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to 
Soho in the evening, and come to your chambers afterwards." 

“Then I say yes," said Stryver: “I won't go up there 
now, I am not so hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, 
and I shall expect you to look in to-night. Good morning." 

Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing 
such a concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand 


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up against it bowing behind the two counters, required the 
utmost remaining strength of the two ancient clerks. Those 
venerable and feeble persons were always seen by the public 
in the act of bowing, and were popularly believed, when they 
had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in the 
empty office until they bowed another customer in. 

The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker 
would not have gone so far in his expression of opinion on any 
less solid ground than moral certainty. Unprepared as he 
was for the large pill he had to swallow, he*got it down. “ And 
now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his forensic forefinger at 
the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way out of 
this, is, to put you all in the wrong.” 

It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which 
he found great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, 
young lady,” said Mr. Stryver; “111 do that for you.” 

Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as 
ten o’clock, Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers 
littered out for the purpose, seemed to have nothing less on 
his mind than the subject of the morning. He even showed 
surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was altogether in an 
absent and preoccupied state. 

“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full 
half-hour of bootless attempts to bring him round to the 
question. “I have been to Soho.” 

“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be 
sure ! What am I thinking of ! ” 

“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right 
in the conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and 
I reiterate my advice.” 

“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest 
way, “ that I am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it 
on the poor father’s account. I know this must always be 
a sore subject with the family; let us say no more about it.” 

“I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Lorry. 

“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a 
smoothing and final way; “no matter, no matter.” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


15 ' 


“But it does matter/’ Mr. Lorry urged. 

“No it doesn’t; I assure you it doesn’t. Having sup- 
posed that there was sense where there is no sense, and a 
laudable ambition where there is not a laudable ambition, I 
am well out of my mistake, and no harm is done. Young 
women have committed similar follies often before, and have 
repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In 
an unselfish aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, 
because it would have been a bad thing for me in a wordly 
point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am glad that the thing 
has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing for me 
in a wordly point of view — it is hardly necessary to say I 
could have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all 
done. I have not proposed to the young lady, and, between 
ourselves, I am by no means certain, on reflection, that I 
ever should have committed myself to that extent. Mr. 
Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and giddi- 
nesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, 
or you will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more 
about it. I tell you, I regret it on account of others, but I 
am satisfied oh my own account. And I am really very 
much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you, and for 
giving me your advice; you know the young lady better 
than I do ; you were right, it never would have done.” 

Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly 
at Mr. Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an 
appearance of showering generosity, forbearance, and good- 
will, on his erring head. “Make the best of it, my dear sir,” 
said Stryver; “say no more about it; thank you again for 
allowing me to sound you ; good night ! ” 

Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he 
was. Mr. Stryver was lying back on his sofa, winking at his 
ceiling. 


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CHAPTER XIII 

THE FELLOW OF NO DELICACY 


o 


If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never 
shone in the house of Doctor Manette. He had been there 
often, during a whole year, and had always been the same 
moody and morose lounger there. When he cared to talk, 
he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing, which 
overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very 
rarely pierced by the light within him. 

And yet he did care something for the streets that en- 
vironed that house, and for the senseless stones that made 
their pavements. Many a night he vaguely and unhappily 
wandered there, when wine had brought no transitory glad- 
ness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary 
figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first 
beams of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties 
of architecture in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as 
perhaps the quiet time brought some sense of better things, 
else forgotten and unattainable, into his mind. Of late, the 
neglected bed in the Temple Court had known him more 
scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself 
upon it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, 
and haunted that neighbourhood. 

On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to 
his jackal that “he had thought better of that marrying 
matter”) had carried his delicacy into Devonshire, and 
when the sight and scent of flowers in the City streets had some 
waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health for the 
sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod 
those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his 
feet became animated by an intention, and, in the working 
out of that intention, they took him to the Doctor’s door. 

He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. 
She had never been quite at her ease with him, and received 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


159 


him with some little embarrassment as he seated himself near 
her table. But, looking up at his face in the interchange 
of the first few common-places, she observed a change in it. 

“ I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton ! ” 

‘‘No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive 
to health. What is to be expected of, or by, such profli- 
gates ?’ 7 

“ Is it not — forgive me ; I have begun the question on my 
lips — a pity to live no better life ? ” 

“ God knows it is a shame ! ” 

“Then why not change it?” 

Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and sad- 
dened to see that there were tears in his eyes. There were 
tears in his voice too, as he answered : 

“ It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. 
I shall sink lower, and be worse.” 

He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes 
with his hand. The table trembled in the silence that 
followed. 

She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. 
He knew her to be so, without looking at her, and said : 

“Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before 
the knowledge of what I want to say to you. Will you hear 
me?” 

“If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make 
you happier, it would make me very glad ! ” 

“God bless you for your sweet compassion!” 

He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily. 

“Don’t be afraid to hear me. Don’t shrink from anything 
I say. I am like one who died young. All my life might 
have been.” 

“ No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might 
still be ; I am sure that you might be much, much worthier 
of yourself.” 

“ Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better — 
although in the mystery of my own wretched heart I know 
better — I shall never forget it !” 


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She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with 
a fixed despair of himself which made the interview unlike 
any other that could have been holden. 

“If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have 
returned the love of the man you see before you — self- 
flung away, wasted, drunken, poor creature of misuse as you 
know him to be — he would have been conscious this day 
and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would bring you 
to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you, 
disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well 
that you can have no tenderness for me; I ask for none; 
I am even thankful that it cannot be.” 

“ Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not 
recall you — forgive me again ! — to a better course ? Can 
I in no way repay your confidence? I know this is a con- 
fidence,” she modestly said, after a little hesitation, and in 
earnest tears, “ I know you would say this to no one else. Can 
I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?” 

He shook his head. 

“To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear 
me through a very little more, all you can ever do for me is 
done. I wish you to know that you have been the last dream 
of my soul. In my degradation I have not been so de- 
graded but that the sight of you with your father, and of 
this home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows 
that I thought had died out of me. Since I knew you, I 
have been troubled by a remorse that I thought would never 
reproach me again, and have heard whispers from old voices 
impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. 
I have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, 
shaking off sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the aban- 
doned fight. A dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing, 
and leaves the sleeper where he lay down, but I wish you to 
know that you inspired it.” 

“Will nothing of it remain? 0 Mr. Carton, think again! 
Try again ! ” 

“No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


161 


to be quite undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, 
and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what 
a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, 
into fire — a fire, however, inseparable in its nature from 
myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no ser- 
vice, idly burning away.” 

“ Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you 
more unhappy than you were before you knew me ” 

“Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have re- 
claimed me, if anything could. You will not be the cause of 
my becoming worse.” 

“Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all 
events, attributable to some influence of mine — this is what 
I mean, if I can make it plain — can I use no influence to 
serve you? Have I no power for good, with you, at all?” 

“The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, 
I have come here to realise. Let me carry through the rest 
of my misdirected life, the remembrance that I opened my 
heart to you, last of all the world ; and that there was some- 
thing left in me at this time which you could deplore and pity.” 

“Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most 
fervently, with all my heart, was capable of better things, 
Mr. Carton !” 

“Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have 
proved myself, and I know better. I distress you; I draw 
fast to an end. Will you let me believe, when I recall this 
day, that the last confidence of my life was reposed in your 
pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there alone, and will 
be shared by no one?” 

“If that will be a consolation to you, yes.” 

“Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?” 

“Mr. Carton,” she answered, after an agitated pause, 
“the secret is yours, not mine: and I promise to respect it.” 

“Thank you. And again, God bless you.” 

He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door. 

“Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever 
resuming this conversation by so much as a passing word. I 

M 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


will never refer to it again. If I were dead, that could not be 
surer than it is henceforth. In the hour of my death, I shall 
hold sacred the one good remembrance — and shall thank and 
bless you for it — that my last avowal of myself was made 
to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries -were gently 
carried in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy ! ” 

He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, 
and it was so sad to think how much he had thrown away, 
and how much he every day kept down and perverted, that 
Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he stood looking 
back at her. 

“Be comforted !” he said, “I am not worth such feeling, 
Miss Manette. An hour or two hence, and the low compan- 
ions and low habits that I scorn but yield to, will render me 
less worth such tears as those, than any wretch who creeps 
along the streets. Be comforted ! But, within myself, I 
shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though out- 
wardly I shall be what you have heretofore seen me. The 
last supplication but one I make to you, is, that you will 
believe this of me.” 

“ I will, Mr. Carton.” 

“My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will 
relieve you of a visitor with whom I well know you have 
nothing in unison, and between whom and you there is an im- 
passable space. It is useless to say it, I know, but it rises 
out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to you, I would 
do anything. If my career were of that better kind that 
there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I 
would embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. 
Try to hold me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent 
and sincere in this one thing. The time will come, the time 
will not be long in coming, when new ties will be formed 
about you — ties that will bind you yet more tenderly and 
strongly to the home you so adorn — the dearest ties that 
will ever grace and gladden you. 0 Miss Manette, when the 
little picture of a happy father’s face looks up in yours, when 
you see your own bright beauty springing up anew at your 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


163 


feet, think now and then that there is a man who would give 
his life, to keep a life you love beside you ! ” 

He said, “Farewell !” said a last “God bless you!” and 
left her. 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE HONEST TRADESMAN 

To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool 
in Fleet Street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast 
number and variety of objects in movement were every day 
presented. Who could sit upon anything in Fleet Street dur- 
ing the busy hours of the day, and not be dazed and deafened 
by two immense processions, one ever tending westward 
with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun, 
both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and 
purple where the sun goes down ! 

With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching 
the two streams, like the heathen rustic who has for several 
centuries been on duty watching one stream — saving that 
Jerry had no expectation of their ever running dry.° Nor 
would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind, since a 
small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of 
timid women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term 
of life) from Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. 
Brief as such companionship was in every separate instance, 
Mr. Cruncher never failed to become so interested in the lady 
as to express a strong desire to have the honour of drinking 
her very good health. And it was from the gifts bestowed 
upon him towards the execution of this benevolent purpose, 
that he recruited his finances, as just now observed. 

Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, 
and mused in the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a 
stool in a public place, but not being a poet, mused as little as 
possible, and looked about him. 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when 
crowds were few, and belated women few, and when his affairs 
in general were so unprosperous as to awaken a strong sus- 
picion in his breast that Mrs. Cruncher must have been 
“ flopping” in some pointed manner, when an unusual con- 
course pouring down Fleet Street westward, attracted his 
attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that 
some kind of funeral was coming along, and that there was 
popular objection to this funeral, which engendered uproar. 

“Young Jerry/’ said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his off- 
spring, “it’s a buryin’.” 

“ Hooroar, father ! ” cried Young Jerry. 

The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with 
mysterious significance. The elder gentleman took the cry 
so ill, that he watched his opportunity, and smote the young 
gentleman on the ear. 

“ What d’ye mean ? What are you hooroaring at ? What 
do you want to conwey to your own father, you young Rip ? 
This boy is a getting too many for me!” said Mr. Cruncher, 
surveying him. “ Him and his hooroars ! Don’t let me 
hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D’ye 
hear ? ” 

“I warn’t doing no harm,” Young Jerry protested, rubbing 
his cheek. 

“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won’t have none 
of your no harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look 
at the crowd.” 

His son obeyed, and the crowd approached ; they were 
bawling and hissing round a dingy hearse and dingy mourn- 
ing coach, in which mourning coach there was only one 
mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were considered 
essential to the dignity of the position. The position ap- 
peared by no means to please him, however, with an increas- 
ing rabble surrounding the coach, deriding him, making 
grimaces at him, and incessantly groaning and calling out : 
“Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!” with many com- 
pliments too numerous and forcible to repeat. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


165 


Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. 
Cruncher; he always pricked up his senses, and became 
excited, when a funeral passed Tellson's. Naturally, there- 
fore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance excited him 
greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him : 

“What is it, brother? What's it about?" 

“/ don't know," said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst ! 
Spies !" 

He asked another man. “Who is it?" 

“/ don't know," returned the man, clapping his hands 
to his mouth nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising 
heat and with the greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, 
tst! Spi-ies!''' 

At length, a person better informed on the merits of the 
case, tumbled against him, and from this person he learned 
that the funeral was the funeral of one Roger Cly. 

“Was He a spy?" asked Mr. Cruncher. 

“Old Bailey spy," returned his informant. “Yaha! 
Tst ! Yah ! Old Bailey Spi-i-ies ! " 

“ Why, to be sure ! " exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial 
at which he had assisted. “I've seen him. Dead, is he?" 

“Dead as mutton," returned the other, “and can't be too 
dead. Have 'em out, there ! Spies ! Pull 'em out, there ! 
Spies ! " 

The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any 
idea, that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly 
repeating the suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, 
mobbed the two vehicles so closely that they came to a stop. 
On the crowd's opening the coach-doors, the one mourner 
scuffled out of himself and was in their hands for a moment ; 
but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time, that 
in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, 
after shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket- 
handkerchief, and other symbolical tears. 

These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide 
with great enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut 
up their shops ; for a crowd in those times stopped at nothing, 


166 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


and was a monster much dreaded. They had already got 
the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin out, when 
some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to 
its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical sugges- 
tions being much needed, this suggestion, too, was received 
with acclamation, and the coach was immediately filled with 
eight inside and a dozen out, while as many people got on the 
roof of the hearse as could by any exercise of ingenuity stick 
upon it. Among the first of these volunteers was Jerry 
Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head 
from the observation of Tellson’s, in the further corner of 
the mourning coach. 

The officiating undertakers made some protest against these 
changes in the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly 
near, and several voices remarking on the efficacy of cold 
immersion in bringing refractory members of the profession 
to reason, the protest was faint and brief. The remodelled 
procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the hearse 
— advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, 
under close inspection, for the purpose — and with a pieman, 
also attended by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning 
coach. A bear-leader, a popular street character of the time, 
was impressed as an additional ornament, before the caval- 
cade had gone far down the Strand ; and his bear, who was 
black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to that 
part of the procession in which he walked. 

Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and 
infinite caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went 
its way, recruiting at every step, and all the shops shutting 
up before it. Its destination was the old church of Saint 
Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there in course of time ; 
insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally, accom- 
plished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own 
way, and highly to its own satisfaction. 

The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the 
necessity of providing some other entertainment for itself, 
another brighter genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


167 


humour of impeaching casual passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, 
and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase was given to some 
scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near the Old 
Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and they 
were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the 
sport of window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of 
public-houses, was easy and natural. At last, after several 
hours, when sundry summer-houses had been pulled down, 
and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm the more 
belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were 
coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted 
away, and perhaps the Guards came, and perhaps they never 
came, and this was the usual progress of a mob. 

Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had 
remained behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole 
with the undertakers. The place had a soothing influence 
on him. He procured a pipe from a neighbouring public- 
house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and maturely 
considering the spot. 

“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in 
his usual way, “you see that there Cly that day, and you see 
with your own eyes that “he was a young ’un and a straight 
made ’un.” 

Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, 
he turned himself about, that he might appear, before the 
hour of closing, on his station at Tellson's. Whether his 
meditations on mortality had touched his liver, or whether 
his general health had been previously at all amiss, or whether 
he desired to show a little attention to an eminent man, is not 
so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon his 
medical adviser — a distinguished surgeon — on his way 
back. 

Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and 
reported No job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient 
clerks came out, the usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher 
and his son went home to tea. 

“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his 


168 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


wife, on entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs 
goes wrong to-night, I shall make sure that you’ve been 
praying again me, and I shall work you for it just the same 
as if I seen you do it.” 

The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head. 

“Why, you’re at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, 
with signs of angry apprehension. 

“I am saying nothing.” 

“Well, then; don’t meditate nothing. You might as well 
flop as meditate. You may as well go again me one way as 
another. Drop it altogether.” 

“Yes, Jerry.” 

“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. 
“Ah! It is yes, Jerry. That’s about it. You may say 
yes, Jerry.” 

Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky 
corroborations, but made use of them, as people not un- 
frequently do, to express general ironical dissatisfaction. 

“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a 
bite out of his bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down 
with a large invisible oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I 
think so. I believe you.” 

“You are going out to-night?” asked his decent wife, 
when he took another bite. 

“Yes, I am.” 

“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly. 

“No, you mayn’t. I’m a going — as your mother knows 
— a fishing. That’s where I’m going to. Going a fishing.” 

“ Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty ; don’t it, father ? ” 

“Never you mind.” 

“Shall you bring any fish home, father?” 

“If I don’t, you’ll have short commons, to-morrow,” 
returned that gentleman, shaking his head ; “ that’s questions 
enough for you; I ain’t a going out, till you’ve been long 
abed.” 

He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to 
keeping a most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


169 


holding her in conversation that she might be prevented 
from meditating any petitions to his disadvantage. With this 
view, he urged his son to hold her in conversation also, and 
led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling on any 
causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than he 
would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The 
devoutest person could have rendered no greater homage 
to the efficacy of an honest prayer than he did in this distrust 
of his wife. It was as if a professed unbeliever in ghosts 
should be frightened by a ghost story. 

“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games to- 
morrow ! If I, as a honest tradesman, succeed in providing 
a jinte of meat or two, none of your not touching of it, and 
sticking to bread. If I, as a honest tradesman, am able to 
provide a little beer, none of your declaring on water. When 
you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly 
customer to you, if you don't. I’m your Rome, you know.” 

Then he began grumbling again : 

“With your flying into the face of your own wittles and 
drink ! I don't know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles 
and drink here, by your flopping tricks and your unfeeling 
conduct. Look at your boy: he is your'n, ain't he? He’s 
as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother, and not 
know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out ? ” 

This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured 
his mother to perform her first duty, and, whatever else she 
did or neglected, above all things to lay especial stress on the 
discharge of that maternal function so affectingly and 
delicately indicated by his other parent. 

Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, 
until Young Jerry was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid 
under similar injunctions, obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher 
beguiled the earlier watches of the night with solitary pipes, 
and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one o’clock. 
Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his 
chair, took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, 
and brought forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope 


170 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


and chain, and other fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing 
these articles about him in skilful manner, he bestowed a 
parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher, extinguished the light, 
and went out. 

Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when 
he went to bed, was not long after his father. Under cover 
of the darkness he followed out of the room, followed down the 
stairs, followed down the court, followed out into the streets. 
He was in no uneasiness concerning his getting into the house 
again, for it was full of lodgers, and the door stood ajar all 
night. 

Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mys- 
tery of his father’s honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as 
close to house fronts, walls, and doorways, as his eyes were 
close to one another, held his honoured parent in view. The 
honoured parent steering Northward, had not gone far, 
when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and 
the two trudged on together. 

Within half an hour from the first starting, they were 
beyond the winking lamps, and the more than winking 
watchmen, and were out upon a lonely road. Another 
fisherman was picked up here — and that so silently, that if 
Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed 
the second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sud- 
den, split himself into two. 

The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three 
stopped under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top 
of the bank was a low brick wall, surmounted by an iron 
railing. In the shadow of bank and wall the three turned 
out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which the wall — 
there, risen to some eight or ten feet high — formed one side. 
Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next 
object that Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured 
parent, pretty well defined against a watery and clouded 
moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate. He was soon over, and 
then the second fisherman got over, and then the third. They 
all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay there 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


171 


a little — listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on 
their hands and knees. 

It was now Young Jerry’s turn to approach the gate: 
which he did, holding his breath. Crouching down again in 
a corner there, and looking in, he made out the three fisher- 
men creeping through some rank grass ! and all the grave- 
stones in the churchyard — it was a large churchyard that 
they were in — looking on like ghosts in white, while the 
church tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous 
giant. They did not creep far, before they stopped and 
stood upright. And then they began to fish. 

They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured 
parent appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a 
great corkscrew. Whatever tools they worked with, they 
worked hard, until the awful striking of the church clock so 
terrified Young Jerry, that he made off, with his hair as stiff 
as his father’s. 

But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these 
matters, not only stopped him in his running away, but 
lured him back again. They were still fishing perseveringly, 
when he peeped in at the gate for the second time ; but, now 
they seemed to have got a bite. There was a screwing and 
complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were 
strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke 
away the earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young 
Jerry very well knew what it would be ; but, when he saw it, 
and saw his honoured parent about to wrench it open, he was 
so frightened, being new to the sight, that he made off again, 
and never stopped until he had run a mile or more. 

He would not have stopped then, for anything less neces- 
sary than breath, it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, 
and one highly desirable to get to the end of. He had a 
strong idea that the coffin he had seen was running after him ; 
and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt upright, upon 
its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him and 
hopping on at his side — perhaps taking his arm — it was a 
pursuer to shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend 


172 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


too, for, while it was making the whole night behind him 
dreadful, he darted out into the roadway to avoid dark alleys, 
fearful of its coming hopping out of them like a dropsical 
boy’s-Kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways too, 
rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing 
them up to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shad- 
ows on the road, and lay cunningly on its back to trip him 
up. All this time it was incessantly hopping on behind 
and gaining on him, so that when the boy got to his own door 
he had reason for being half dead. And even then it would 
not leave him, but followed him up-stairs with a bump on 
every stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, 
dead and heavy, on his breast when he fell asleep. 

From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was 
awakened after daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence 
of his father in the family room. Something had gone wrong 
with him; at least, so Young Jerry inferred, from the cir- 
cumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the ears, and 
knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the 
bed. 

“I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.” 

“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored. 

“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said 
Jerry, “and me and my partners suffer. You was to honour 
and obey; why the devil don’t you?” 

“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman pro- 
tested, with tears. 

“ Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband’s business ? 
Is it honouring your husband to dishonour his business? 
Is it obeying your husband to disobey him on the wital sub- 
ject of his business?” 

“You hadn’t taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.” 

“It’s enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the 
wife of a honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female 
mind with calculations when he took to his trade or when he 
didn’t. A honouring and obeying wife would let his trade 
alone altogether. Call yourself a religious woman? If 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


173 


you’re a religious woman, give me a irreligious one ! You 
have no more nat’ral sense of duty than the bed of this here 
Thames river has of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked 
into you.” 

The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and 
terminated in the honest tradesman’s kicking off his clay- 
soiled boots, and lying down at his length on the floor. After 
taking a timid peep at him lying on his back, with his rusty 
hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay down too, and 
fell asleep again. 

There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything 
else. Mr. Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, 
and kept an iron pot-lid by him as a projectile for the correc- 
tion of Mrs. Cruncher, in case he should observe any symp- 
toms of her saying Grace. He was brushed and washed at 
the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his osten- 
sible calling. 

Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his 
father’s side along sunny and crowded Fleet Street, was a 
very different Young Jerry from him of the previous night, 
running home through darkness and solitude from his grim 
pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day, and his qualms 
were gone with the night — in which particulars it is not im- 
probable that he had compeers in Fleet Street and the City of 
London, that fine morning. 

“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking 
care to keep at arm’s length and to have the stool well be- 
tween them: “what’s a Resurrection-Man?” 

Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he 
answered, “How should I know?” 

“I thought you knowed everything, father,” said the art- 
less boy. 

“Hem! Well,” returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, 
and lifting off his hat to give his spikes free play, “he’s a 
tradesman.” 

“What’s his goods, father?” asked the brisk Young 
Jerry. 


174 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“His goods,” said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his 
mind, “is a branch of Scientific goods.” 

“Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?” asked the lively boy. 

“I believe it is something of that sort,-” said Mr. Cruncher. 

“Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man 
when I'm quite growed up !” 

Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious 
and moral way. “It depends upon how you dewelop your 
talents. Be careful to dewelop your talents, and never to say 
no more than you can help to nobody, and there's no telling 
at the present time what you may not come to be fit for.” 
As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in 
advance, to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. 
Cruncher added to himself: “Jerry, you honest tradesman, 
there's hopes wot that boy will yet be a blessing to you, and 
a recompense to you for his mother!” 

F 

CHAPTER XV 

KNITTING 

There had beep earlier drinking than usual in the wine- 
shop of Monsieur Defarge.' As early as six o'clock in the 
morning, sallow faces peeping through its barred windows 
had descried other faces within, bending over measures of 
wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best of 
times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine 
that he sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a sour- 
ing, for its influence on the mood of those who drank it was to 
make them gloomy. No vivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped 
out of the pressed grape of Monsieur Defarge : but, a smoul- 
dering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in the dregs of it. 

This had been the third morning in succession, on which 
f here had been early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur 
, Defarge. It had begun, on Monday, and here was Wednes- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


175 


day come. There had been more of early brooding than 
drinking; for, many" men had listened and whispered and 
slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, 
who could not have laid a piece of money on the counter 
to save their souls. These were to the full as interested in 
the place, however, as if they could have commanded whole 
barrels of wine ; and they glided from seat to seat, and from 
corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy 
looks. 

Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master 
of the wine-shop was not visible. He was not missed; for, 
nobody who crossed the threshold looked for him, nobody 
asked for him, nobody wondered to see only Madame Defarge 
in her seat, presiding over the distribution of wine, with a 
bowl of battered small coins before her, 'as much defaced and 
beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of 
humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come. 

A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, 
were perhaps observed by the spies who looked in at the 
wine-shop, as they looked in at every place, high and low, 
from the king’s palace to the criminal’s gaol. Games at 
?ards languished, players at dominoes musingly built towers 
with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt 
drops of wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern 
on her sleeve with her toothpick, and saw and heard some- 
thing inaudible and invisible a long way off. 

Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until 
mid-day. It was high noontide, when two dusty men passed 
through his streets and under his swinging lamps : of whom, 
one was Monsieur Defarge : the other a mender of roads in 
a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered the wine- 
shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fi^e in the breast 
of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which 
stirred and flickered in flames of faces at most doors and 
windows. Yet, no one had followed them, and no man spoke 
when they entered the wine-shop, though the eyes of every 
man there were turned upon them. 


176 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“Good day, gentlemen !” said Monsieur Defarge. 

It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. 
It elicited an answering chorus of “Good day!” 

“It is bad weather, gentlemen,” said Defarge, shaking his 
head. 

Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then 
all cast down their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, 
who got up and went out. 

“My wife,” said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame 
Defarge: “I have travelled certain leagues with this good 
mender of roads, called Jacques. I met him — by accident 
— a day and half's journey out of Paris. He is a good child, 
this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to drink, my 
wife !” 

A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge 
set wine before the mender of roads called Jacques, who 
doffed his blue cap to the company, and drank. In the 
breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark bread; he 
ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking 
near Madame Defarge 's counter. A third man got up and 
went out. 

Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine — but, 
he took less than was given to the stranger, as being himself 
a man to whom it was no rarity — and stood waiting until 
the countryman had made his breakfast. He looked at no 
one present, and no one now looked at him ; not even Madame 
Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work. 

“Have you finished your repast, friend?” he asked, in due 
season. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told 
you you could occupy. It will suit you to a marvel.” 

Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into 
a courtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out 
of the staircase into a garret, — formerly the garret where 
a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward 
and very busy, making shoes. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


177 


No white-haired man was there now; but, the three men 
were there who had gone out of the wine-shop singly. And 
between them and the white-haired man afar off, was the 
one small link, that they had once looked in at him through 
the chinks in the wall. 

Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued 
voice : 

“Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the 
witness encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. 
He will tell you all. Speak, Jacques Five!” 

The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy 
forehead with it, and said, “Where shall I commence, mon- 
sieur?” 

“Commence,” was Monsieur Defarge ; s not unreasonable 
reply, “at the commencement.” 

“I saw him then, messieurs,” began the mender of roads, 
“a year ago this running summer, underneath the carriage 
of the Marquis, hanging by the chain. Behold the manner 
of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun going to bed, 
the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he 
hanging by the chain — -like this.” 

Again the mender of roads went through the whole per- 
formance; in which he ought to have been perfect by that 
time, seeing that it had been the infallible resource and in- 
dispensable entertainment of his village during a whole year. 

Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the 
man before? 

“Never,” answered the mender of roads, recovering his 
perpendicular. 

Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised 
him then? 

“By his tall figure, 0 ” said the mender of roads, softly, and 
with his finger at his nose. “When Monsieur the Marquis 
demands that evening, ‘Say, what is he like?' I make re- 
sponse, ‘Tall as a spectre/” 

“You should have said, short as a dwarf,” returned 
Jacques Two. 


178 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“But what did I know? The deed was not then accom- 
plished, neither did he confide in me. Observe! Under 
those circumstances even, I do not offer my testimony. Mon- 
sieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger, standing near 
our little fountain, and says, ‘To me ! Bring that rascal ! ’ 
My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.” 

“He is right there, Jacques,” murmured Defarge, to him 
who had interrupted. “ Go on ! ” 

“ Good ! ” said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. 
“The tall man is lost, and he is sought — how many months? 
Nine, ten, eleven?” 

“No matter, the number,” said Defarge. “He is well 
hidden, but at last he is unluckily found. Go on !” 

“I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is 
again about to go to bed. I am collecting my tools to de- 
scend to my cottage down in the village below, where it is 
already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see coming over the 
hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man with his 
arms bound — ■ tied to his sides — like this ! ” 

With the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man 
with his elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were 
knotted behind him. 

“ I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the 
soldiers and their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, 
where any spectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as 
they approach, I see no more than that they are six soldiers 
with a tall man bound, and that they are almost black to my 
sight — except on the side of the sun going to bed, where 
they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that their long 
shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the 
road, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of 
giants. Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and that 
the dust moves with them as they come, tramp, tramp ! But 
when they advance quite near to me, I recognise the tall man, 
and he recognises me. Ah, but he would be well content to 
precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as on the even- 
ing when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot !” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


179 


He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that 
he saw it vividly ; perhaps he had not seen much in his life. 

“I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; 
he does not show the soldiers that he recognises me ; we do it, 
and we know it, with our eyes. ‘Come on!’ says the chief 
of that company, pointing to the village, ‘bring him fast to 
his tomb ! ' and they bring him faster. I follow. His arms 
are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden 
shoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is 
lame, and consequently slow, they drive him with their guns 
— like this ! " 

He imitated the action of a man's being impelled forward 
by the butt-ends of muskets. 

“As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he 
falls. They laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleed- 
ing and covered with dust, but he cannot touch it ; thereupon 
they laugh again. They bring him into the village; all the 
village runs to look; they take him past the mill, and up to 
the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the 
darkness of the night, and swallow him — like this ! " 

He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with 
a sounding snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness 
to mar the effect by opening it again, Defarge said, “Go on, 
Jacques." 

“All the village," pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe 
and in a low voice, “withdraws; all the village whispers by 
the fountain; all the village sleeps; all the village dreams 
of that unhappy one, within the locks and bars of the prison 
on the crag, and never to come out of it, except to perish. 
In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating my 
morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, 
on my way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind 
the bars of a lofty iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, 
looking through. He has no hand free, to wave to me; 
I dare not call to him; he regards me like a dead man." 

Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The 
looks of all of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, 


180 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


as they listened to the countryman’s story; the manner of 
all of them, while it was secret, was authoritative too. They 
had the air of a rough tribunal ; Jacques One and Two sitting 
on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on his hand, 
and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, 
equally intent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated 
hand always gliding over the network of fine nerves about his 
mouth and nose; Defarge standing between them and the 
narrator, whom he had stationed in the light of the window, 
by turns looking from him to them, and from them to him. 

“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge. 

“He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The 
village looks at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always 
looks up, from a distance, at the prison on the crag; and in 
the evening, when the work of the day is achieved and it 
assembles to gossip at the fountain, all faces are turned 
towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards 
the posting-house ; now, they are turned towards the prison. 
They whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to 
death he will not be executed ; they say that petitions have 
been presented in Paris, showing that he was enraged and 
made mad by the death of his child ; they say that a petition 
has been presented to the King himself. What do I know? 
It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.” 

“Listen then, Jacques,” Number One of that name sternly 
interposed. “Know that a petition was presented to the 
King and Queen. All here, yourself excepted, saw the King 
take it, in his carriage in the street, sitting beside the Queen. 
It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the hazard of his 
life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in his 
hand.” 

“And once again listen, Jacques!” said the kneeling 
Number Three : his fingers ever wandering over and over 
those fine nerves, with a strikingly greedy air, as if he hun- 
gered for something — that was neither food nor drink ; “the 
guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner, and struck 
him blows. You hear?” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


181 


"1 hear, messieurs.” 

“Go on then,” said Defarge. 

“Again ; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,” 
resumed the countryman, “that he is brought down into our 
country to be executed on the spot, and that he will very 
certainly be executed. They even whisper that because he 
has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the 
father of his tenants — serfs — what you will — he will be 
executed as a parricide. One old man says at the fountain, 
that his right hand, armed with the knife, will be burnt off 
before his face ; that, into wounds which will be made in his 
arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be poured boiling 
oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally, that 
he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That 
old man says, all this was actually dofce to a prisoner who 
made an attempt on the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. 
But how do I know if he lies ? I am not a scholar.” 

“Listen once again then, Jacques ! ” said the man with the 
restless hand and the craving air. “The name of that pris- 
oner was Damiens, 0 and it was all done in open day, in the 
open streets of this city of Paris; and nothing was more 
noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than the. crowd 
of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager atten- 
tion to the last — to the last, Jacques, prolonged until night- 
fall, when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed ! 
And it was done — why, how old are you?” 

“Thirty-five,” said the mender of roads, who looked sixty. 

“ It was done when you were more than ten years old ; you 
might have seen it.” 

“ Enough ! ” said Defarge, with grim impatience. “ Long 
live the Devil! Go on.” 

“Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they 
speak of nothing else ; even the fountain appears to fall to 
that tune. At length, on Sunday night when all the village 
is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from the prison, and 
their guns ring on the stones of the little street. Workmen 
dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the 


182 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


morning, by the fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet 
high, poisoning the water.” 

The mender of roads looked through rather than at the low 
ceiling, and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in 
the sky. 

“All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads 
the cows out, the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the 
roll of drums. Soldiers have marched into the prison in the 
night, and he is in the midst of many soldiers. He is bound 
as before, and in his mouth there is a gag — tied so, with a 
tight string, making him look almost as if he laughed.” He 
suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs, from 
the corners of his mouth to his ears. “On the top of the 
gallows is fixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in 
the air. He is hanged there forty feet high — and is left 
hanging, poisoning the water.” 

They looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe 
his face, on which the perspiration had started afresh while he 
recalled the spectacle. 

“It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the 
children draw water ! Who can gossip of an evening, under 
that shadow! Under it, have I said? When I left the vil- 
lage, Monday evening as the sun was going to bed, and 
looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the 
church, across the mill, across the prison — seemed to 
strike across the earth, messieurs, to where the sky rests 
upon it !” 

The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at 
the other three, and his finger quivered with the craving that 
was on him. 

“That’s all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been 
warned to do), and I walked on, that night and half next 
day, until I met (as I was warned I should) this comrade. 
With him, I came on, now riding and now walking, through 
the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here you 
see me ! ” 

After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, “Good! 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


183 


You have acted and recounted faithfully. Will you wait 
for us a little, outside the door ? " 

“Very willingly/' said the mender of roads. Whom 
Defarge escorted to the top of the stairs, and, leaving seated 
there, returned. 

The three had risen, and their heads were together when he 
came back to the garret. 

“How say you, Jacques?" demanded Number One. “To 
be registered?" 

“To be registered, as doomed to destruction," returned 
Defarge. 

“Magnificent !" croaked the man with the craving. 

“The chateau, and all the race?" inquired the first. 

“The chateau and all the race," returned Defarge. “Ex- 
termination." 

The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, “Mag- 
nificent!" and began gnawing another finger. 

“Are you sure," asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, “that no 
embarrassment can arise from our manner of keeping the 
register? Without doubt it is safe, for no one beyond our- 
selves can decipher it; but shall we always be able to de- 
cipher it — or, I ought to say, will she?" 

“Jacques," returned Defarge, drawing himself up, “if 
madame my wife undertook to keep the register in her mem- 
ory alone, she would not lose a word of it — not a syllable of it. 
Knitted, in her own stitches and her own symbols, it will 
always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in Madame 
Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that 
lives, to erase himself from existence, than to erase one 
letter of his name or crimes from the knitted register of 
Madame Defarge." 

There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then 
the man who hungered, asked : “Is this rustic to be sent back 
soon ? I hope so. He is very simple ; is he not a little dan- 
gerous?" 

“He knows nothing," said Defarge; “at least nothing 
more than would easily elevate himself to a gallows of the 


184 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


same height. I charge myself with him; let him remain 
with me; I will take care of him, and set him on his road. 
He wishes to see the fine world — the King, the Queen, and 
Court; let him see them on Sunday.” 

“What?” exclaimed the hungry man, staring. “Is it a 
good sign, that he wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?” 

“Jacques,” said Defarge; “judiciously show a cat milk, 
if you wish her to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog 
his natural prey, if you wish him to bring it down one 
day.” 

Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being 
found already dozing on the topmost stair, was advised to 
lay himself down on the pallet-bed and take some rest. He 
needed no persuasion, and was soon asleep. 

Worse quarters than Defarge ; s wine-shop, could easily 
have been found in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. 
Saving for a mysterious dread of madame by which he was 
constantly haunted, his life was very new and agreeable. But, 
madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly unconscious 
of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that 
his being there had any connection with anything below the 
surface, that he shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye 
lighted on her. For, he contended with himself that it was 
impossible to foresee what that lady might pretend next; 
and he felt assured that if she should take it into her brightly 
ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a mur- 
der and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go 
through with it until the play was played out. 

Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was 
not enchanted (though he said he was) to find that madame 
was to accompany monsieur and himself to Versailles. It 
was additionally disconcerting to have madame knitting all 
the way there, in a public conveyance; it was additionally 
disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the after- 
noon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited 
to see the carriage of the King and Queen. 

“You work hard, madame,” said a man near her. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


185 


“Yes,” answered Madame Defarge; “I have a good deal 
to do.” 

“What do you make, madame?” 

“Many things.” 

“For instance ” 

“For instance,” returned Madame Defarge, composedly, 
'shrouds.” 

The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, 
and the mender of roads fanned himself with his blue cap : 
feeling it mightily close and oppressive. If he needed a King 
and Queen to restore him, he was fortunate in having his 
remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King and the 
fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the 
shining Bulbs Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of 
laughing ladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and 
powder and splendour and elegantly spurning figures and 
handsomely disdainful faces of both sexes, the mender of 
roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary intoxication, 
that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen, Long 
live everybody and everything ! as if he had never heard 
of ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, 
courtyards, terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and 
Queen, more Bulks Eye, more lords and ladies, more Long 
live they all ! until he absolutely wept with sentiment. 
During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three hours, 
he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental com- 
pany, and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if 
to restrain him from flying at the objects of his brief devo- 
tion and tearing them to pieces. 

“Bravo !” said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it 
was over, like a patron; “you are a good boy !” 

The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was 
mistrustful of having made a mistake in his late demonstra- 
tions; but no. 

“You are the fellow we want,” said Defarge, in his ear; 
“ you make these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, 
they are the more insolent, and it is the nearer ended.” 


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“Hey!” cried the mender of roads, reflectively; “that’s 
true.” 

“These fools know nothing. While they despise your 
breath, and would stop it for ever and ever, in you or in a 
hundred like you rather than in one of their own horses or 
dogs, they only know what your breath tells them. Let it 
deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot deceive them 
too much.” 

Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and 
nodded in confirmation. 

“As to you,” said she, “you would shout and shed tears 
for anything, if it made a show and a noise. Say ! Would 
you not?” 

“Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.” 

“If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set 
upon them to pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your 
own advantage, you would pick out the richest and gayest. 
Say ! W ould you not ? ’ * 

“Truly yes, madame.” 

“Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to 
fly, and were set upon them to strip them of their feathers 
for your own advantage, you would set upon the birds of the 
finest feathers; would you not?” 

“It is true, madame.” 

“ You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,” said Madame 
Defarge, with a wave of her hand towards the place where 
they had last been apparent; “now, go home!” 


CHAPTER XVI 

STILL KNITTING 

Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned 
amicably to the bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a 
blue cap toiled through the darkness, and through the dust, 
and down the weary miles of avenue by the wayside, slowly 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


187 


tending towards that point of the compass where the chateau 
of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to the 
whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, 
now, for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the 
few village scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat 
and fragments of dead stick to burn, strayed within sight of 
the great stone courtyard and terrace staircase, had it borne 
in upon their starved fancy that the expression of the faces 
was altered. A rumour just lived in the village — had a 
faint and bare existence there, as its people had — that when 
the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride 
to faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling 
figure was hauled up forty feet above the fountain, they 
changed again, and bore a cruel look of being avenged, which 
they would henceforth bear for ever. In the stone face over 
the great window of the bedchamber where the murder was 
done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, 
which everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of 
old; and on the scarce occasions when two or three ragged 
peasants emerged from the crowd to take a hurried peep at 
Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a skinny finger would not 
have pointed to it for a minute, before they all started away 
among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares 
who could find a living there. 

Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red 
stain on the stone floor, and the pure water in the village 
well — thousands of acres of land — a whole province of 
France — all France itself — lay under the night sky, con- 
centrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole 
world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twin- 
kling star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of 
light and analyse the manner of its composition, so, sublimer 
intelligences may read in the feeble shining of this earth of 
ours, every thought and act, every vice and virtue, of every 
responsible creature on it. 

The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under 
the starlight, in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris 


188 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


whereunto their journey naturally tended. There was the 
usual stoppage at the barrier guard-house, and the usual 
lanterns came glancing forth for the usual examination and 
inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two of 
the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was 
intimate with, and affectionately embraced. 

When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his 
dusky wings, and they, having finally alighted near the 
Saint's boundaries, were picking their way on foot through 
the black mud and offal of his streets, Madame Defarge 
spoke to her husband : 

“ Say then, my friend ; what did Jacques of the police tell 
thee?" 

“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another 
spy commissioned for our quarter. There may be many 
more, for all that he can say, but he knows of one." 

“Eh well!" said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows 
with a cool business air. “ It is necessary to register him. 
How do they call that man?" 

“He is English." 

“So much the better. His name?" 

“Barsad," said Defarge, making it French by pronun- 
ciation. But, he had been so careful to get it accurately, 
that he then spelt it with perfect correctness. 

“ Barsad," repeated madame. “ Good. Christian name ? " 

“John." 

“John Barsad," repeated madame, after murmuring it 
once to herself. “Good. His appearance ; is it known?" 

“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; 
black hair; complexion dark; generally, rather handsome 
visage; eyes dark, face thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, 
but not straight, having a peculiar inclination towards the 
left cheek; expression, therefore, sinister." 

“ Eh my faith. It is a portrait ! " said madame, laughing. 
“He shall be registered to-morrow." 

They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for* it 
was midnight), and where Madame Defarge immediately 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


189 


took her post at her desk, counted the small moneys that had 
been taken during her absence, examined the stock, went 
through the entries in the book, made other entries of her 
own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and 
finally dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the con- 
tents of the bowl of money for the second time, and began 
knotting them up in her handkerchief, in a chain of separate 
knots, for safe keeping through the night. All this while, 
Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked up and down, 
complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which 
condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, 
he walked up and down through life. 

The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded 
by so foul a neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur 
Defarge’s olfactory sense was by no means delicate, but the 
stock of wine smelt much stronger than it ever tasted, and so 
did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He whiffed 
the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked- 
out pipe. 

“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as 
she knotted the money. “There are only the usual odours.” 

“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged. 

“You are a little depressed, too,” said madame, whose 
quick eyes had never been so intent on the accounts, but they 
had had a ray or two for him. “ Oh, the men, the men ! ” 

“But my dear!” began Defarge. 

“But my dear !” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but 
my dear ! You are faint of heart to-night, my dear !” 

“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out 
of his breast, “it is a long time.” 

“It is a long time,” repeated his wife ; “and when is it not 
a long time ? Vengeance and retribution require a long time ; 
it is the rule.” 

“It does not take a long time to strike a man with Light- 
ning,” said Defarge. 

“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it 
take to make and store the lightning? Tell me.” 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were some- 
thing in that too. 

“It does not take a long time,” said madame, “for an 
earthquake to swallow a town. Eh well ! Tell me how long 
it takes to prepare the earthquake?” 

“A long time, I suppose,” said Defarge. 

“ But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces 
everything before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, 
though it is not seen or heard. That is your consolation. 
Keep it.” 

She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled 
a foe. 

“I tell thee,” said madame, extending her right hand, 
for emphasis, “that although it is a long time on the road, it 
is on the road and coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and 
never stops. I tell thee it is always advancing. Look 
around and consider the lives of all the world that we know, 
consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider the 
rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie 0 addresses itself 
with more and more of certainty every hour. Can such 
things last? Bah ! I mock you.” 

“My brave wife,” returned Defarge, standing before her 
with his head a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, 
like a docile and attentive pupil before his catechist, “I do 
not question all this. But it has lasted a long time, and it 
is possible — you know well, my wife, it is possible — that 
it may not come, during our lives.” 

“Eh well! How then?” demanded madame, tying 
another knot, as if there were another enemy strangled. 

“Well!” said Defarge, with a half complaining and half 
apologetic shrug. “We shall not see the triumph.” 

“We shall have helped it,” returned madame, with her 
extended hand in strong action. “Nothing that we do, is 
done in vain. I believe, with all my soul, that we shall see 
the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew certainly not, 
show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I 
would ” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


191 


Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot 
indeed. 

“Hold!” cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt 
charged with cowardice; “I too, my dear, will stop at 
nothing.” 

“ Yes ! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need 
to see your victim and your opportunity, to sustain you. 
Sustain yourself without that. When the time comes, let 
loose a tiger and a devil ; but wait for the time with the tiger 
and the devil chained — not shown — yet always ready.” 

Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by 
striking her little counter with her chain of money as if she 
knocked its brains out, and then gathering the heavy hand- 
kerchief under her arm in a serene manner, and observing 
that it was time to go to bed. 

Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual 
place in the wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose 
lay beside her, and if she now and then glanced at the flower, 
it was with no infraction of her usual preoccupied air. There 
were a few customers, drinking or not drinking, standing or 
seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot, and heaps 
of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventu- 
rous perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near 
madame, fell dead at the bottom. Their decease made no 
impression on the other flies out promenading, who looked at 
them in the coolest manner (as if they themselves were ele- 
phants, or something as far removed), until they met the 
same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are ! — 
perhaps they thought as much at Court that sunny summer 
day. 

A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame 
Defarge which she felt to be a new one. She laid down her 
knitting, and began to pin her rose in her head-dress, before 
she looked at the figure. 

It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up 
the rose, the customers ceased talking, and began gradually 
to drop out of the wine-shop. 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“Good day, madame,” said the new-comer. 

“Good day, monsieur.’’ 

She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her 
knitting: “Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about 
five feet nine, black hair, generally rather handsome visage, 
complexion dark, eyes dark, thin, long and sallow face, 
aquiline nose but not straight, having a peculiar inclination 
towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister expression ! 
Good day, one and all!” 

“ Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, 
and a mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.” 

Madame complied with a polite air. 

“Marvellous cognac this, madame!” 

It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and 
Madame Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know 
better. She said, however, that the cognac was flattered, 
and took up her knitting. The visitor watched her fingers 
for a few moments, and took the opportunity of observing 
the place in general. 

“You knit with great skill, madame.” 

“I am accustomed to it.” 

“A pretty pattern too!” 

“ You think so ? ” said madame, looking at him with a smile. 

“ Decidedly. May one ask what it is for ? ” 

“Pastime,” said madame, still looking at him with a 
smile, while her fingers moved nimbly. 

“Not for use?” 

“That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I 
do — well,” said madame, drawing a breath and nodding 
her head with a stern kind of coquetry, “I’ll use it I” 

It was remarkable ; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed 
to be decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame 
Defarge. Two men had entered separately, and had been 
about to order drink, when, catching sight of that novelty, 
they faltered, made a pretence of looking about as if for some 
friend who was not there, and went away. Nor, of those 
who had been there when this visitor entered, was there one 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


193 


left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes 
open, but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged 
away in a poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, 
quite natural and unimpeachable. 

“John,” thought madame, checking off her work as her 
fingers knitted, and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay 
long enough, and I shall knit ‘Barsad' before you go.” 

“You have a husband, madame?” 

“I have.” 

“Children?” 

“No children.” 

“ Business seems bad ? ” 

“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.” 

“ Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people ! So oppressed, 
too — as you say.” 

“As you say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and 
deftly knitting an extra something into his name that boded 
him no good. 

“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you 
naturally think so. Of course.” 

“/ think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and 
my husband have enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, 
without thinking. All we think, here, is how to live. That 
is the subject we think of, and it gives us, from morning to 
night, enough to think about, without embarrassing our 
heads concerning others. I think for others? No, no.” 

The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could 
find or make, did not allow his baffled state to express itself 
in his sinister face; but, stood with an air of gossiping gal- 
lantry, leaning his elbow on Madame Defarge's little counter, 
and occasionally sipping his cognac. 

“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. 
Ah ! the poor Gaspard !” With a sigh of great compassion. 

“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if 
people use knives for such purposes, they have to pay for it. 
He knew beforehand what the price of his luxury was; he 
has paid the price.” 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“I believe, ” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone 
that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolution- 
ary susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I 
believe there is much compassion and anger in this neigh- 
bourhood, touching the poor fellow? Between ourselves.” 

“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly. 

“Is there not?” 

“ — Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge. 

As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy 
saluted him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engag- 
ing smile, “Good day, Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, 
and stared at him. 

“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite 
so much confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the 
stare. 

“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of 
the wine-shop. “You mistake me for another. That is not 
my name. I am Ernest Defarge.” 

“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited 
too: “good day!” 

“ Good day ! ” answered Defarge, drily. 

“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure 
of chatting when you entered, that they tell me there is — 
and no wonder ! — much sympathy and anger in Saint An- 
toine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.” 

“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. 
“I know nothing of it.” 

Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and 
stood with his hand on the back of his wife’s chair, looking 
over that barrier at the person to whom they were both 
opposed, and whom either of them would have shot with the 
greatest satisfaction. 

The spy, well used to his business, did not change his un- 
conscious attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took 
a sip of fresh water, and asked for another glass of cognac. 
Madame Defarge poured it out for him, took to her knitting 
again, and hummed a little song over it. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


195 


“You seem to know this quarter well ; that is to say, better 
than I do ? ” observed Defarge. 

“Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so pro- 
foundly interested in its miserable inhabitants.” 

“Hah!” muttered Defarge. 

“The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, 
recalls to me,” pursued the spy, “that I have the honour of 
cherishing some interesting associations with your name.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Defarge, with much indifference. 

“Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, 
his old domestic, had the charge of him, I know. He was 
delivered to you. You see I am informed of the circum- 
stances?” 

“Such is the fact, certainly,” said Defarge. He had had 
it conveyed to him, in an accidental touch of his wife’s elbow 
as she knitted and warbled, that he would do best to answer, 
but always with brevity. 

“It was to you,” said the spy, “that his daughter came; 
and it was from your care that his daughter took him, accom- 
panied by a neat brown monsieur ; how is he called ? — in a 
little wig — Lorry — of the bank of Tellson and Company — 
over to England.” 

“Such is the fact,” repeated Defarge. 

“ Very interesting remembrances ! ” said the spy. “ I have 
known Doctor Manette and his daughter, in England.” 

“Yes?” said Defarge. 

“You don’t hear much about them now?” said the spy. 

“No,” said Defarge. 

“In effect,” madame struck in, looking up from her work 
and her little song, “we never hear about them. We received 
the news of their safe arrival, and perhaps another letter, or 
perhaps two ; but, since then, they have gradually taken their 
road in life — we, ours — and we have held no correspond- 
ence.” 

“Perfectly so, madame,” replied the spy. “She is going 
to be married.” 

“Going?” echoed madame. “She was pretty enough to 


196 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


have been married long ago. You English are cold, it seems v 
to me.” 

“Oh ! You know I am English.” 

“ I perceive your tongue is,” returned madame ; “and what 
the tongue is, I suppose the man is.” 

He did not take the identification as a compliment ; but he 
made the best of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After 
sipping his cognac to the end, he added : 

“Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an 
Englishman; to one who, like herself, is French by birth. 
And speaking of Gaspard (ah, poor Gaspard ! It was cruel, 
cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is going to marry the 
nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard was 
exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the 
present Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is 
no Marquis there; he is Mr. Charles Darnay. D’Aulnais is 
the name of his mother’s family.” 

Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had 
a palpable effect upon her husband. Do what he would, be- 
hind the little counter, as to the striking of a light and the 
lighting of his pipe, he was troubled, and his hand was not 
trustworthy. The spy would have been no spy if he had 
failed to see it, or to record it in his mind. 

Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might 
prove to be worth, and no customers coming in to help him to 
any other, Mr. Barsad paid for what he had drunk, and took 
his leave : taking occasion to say, in a genteel manner, before 
he departed, that he looked forward to the pleasure of seeing 
Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes 
after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, 
the husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, 
lest he should come back. 

“Can it be true,” said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down 
at his wife as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of 
her chair: “what he has said of Ma’amselle Manette?” 

“As he has said it,” returned madame, lifting her eyebrows 
a little, “it is probably false. But it may be true.” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


197 


“If it is ” Defarge began, ai d stopped. 

“If it is?” repeated his wife. 

“ — And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph — 
I hope, for her sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of 
France.” 

“Her husband's destiny,” said Madame Defarge, with her 
usual composure, “will take him where he is to go, and will 
lead him to the end that is to end him. That is all I know.” 

“ But it is very strange — now, at least, is it not very 
strange” — said Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to 
induce her to admit it, “ that, after all our sympathy for Mon- 
sieur her father, and herself, her husband's name should be 
proscribed under your hand at this moment, by the side of 
that infernal dog's who has just left us?” 

“ Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,” 
answered madame. “I have them both here, of a certainty; 
and they are both here for their merits; that is enough.” 

She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, 
and presently took the rose out of the handkerchief that was 
wound about her head. Either Saint Antoine had an in- 
stinctive sense that the objectionable decoration was gone, or 
Saint Antoine was on the watch for its disappearance ; how- 
beit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very shortly after- 
wards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect. 

In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine 
turned himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window- 
ledges, and came to the corners of vile streets and courts, for 
a breath of air, Madame Defarge with her work in her hand 
was accustomed to pass from place to place and from group 
to group : a Missionary — there were many like her — such 
as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women 
knitted. They knitted worthless things ; but, the mechanical 
work was a mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; 
the hands moved for the jaws and the digestive apparatus: 
if the bony fingers had been still, the stomachs would have 
been more famine-pinched. 

But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts 


198 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


And as Madame Defarge moved on from group to group, all 
three went quicker and fiercer among every little knot of 
women that she had spoken with, and left behind. 

Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with 
admiration. “A great woman,” said he, “a strong woman, 
a grand woman, a frightfully grand woman!” 

Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of 
church bells and the distant beating of the military drums in 
the Palace Courtyard, as the women sat knitting, knitting. 
Darkness encompassed them. Another darkness was clos- 
ing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing pleasantly 
in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into 
thundering cannon ; when the military drums should be beat- 
ing to drown a wretched voice, that night all potent as the 
voice of Power and Plenty, Freedom and Life. So much was 
closing in about the women who sat knitting, knitting, that 
they their very selves were closing in around a structure yet 
unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting, counting 
dropping heads. 


CHAPTER XVII 

ONE NIGHT 

Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the 
quiet corner in Soho, than one memorable evening when the 
Doctor and his daughter sat under the plane-tree together. 
Never did the moon rise with a milder radiance over great 
London, than on that night when it found them still seated 
under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves. 

Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this 
last evening for her father, and they sat alone under the plane- 
tree. 

“ You are happy, my dear father ?” 

“Quite, my child." 

They had said little, though they had been there a long 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


199 


time. When it was yet light enough to work and read, she 
had neither engaged herself in her usual work, nor had she 
read to him. She had employed herself in both ways, at his 
side under the tree, many and many a time; but, "this time 
was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so. 

“ And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply 
happy in the love that Heaven has so blessed — my love for 
Charles, and Charles’s love for me. But, if my life were not 
to be still consecrated to you, or if my marriage were so ar- 
ranged as that it would part us, even by the length of a few 
of these streets, I should be more unhappy and self-reproach- 
ful now than I can tell you. Even as it is ” 

Even as it was, she could not command her voice. 

In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and 
laid her face upon his breast. In the moonlight which is 
always sad, as the light of the sun itself is — as the light 
called human life is — at its coming and its going. 

“ Dearest dear ! Can you tell me, this last time, that you 
feel quite, quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new 
duties of mine, will ever interpose between us? I know it 
well, but do you know it ? In your own heart, do you feel 
quite certain ?” 

Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction 
he could scarcely have assumed, “Quite sure, my darling! 
More than that,” he added, as he tenderly kissed her: “my 
future is far brighter, Lucie, seen through your marriage, than 
it could have been — nay, than it ever was — without it.” 

“ If I could hope that, my father ! ” 

“ Believe it, love ! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural 
and how plain it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, de- 
voted and young, cannot fully appreciate the anxiety I have 
felt that your life should not be wasted ” 

She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, 
and repeated the word. 

“ — wasted, my child — should not be wasted, struck aside 
from the natural order of things — for my sake. Your un- 
selfishness cannot entirely comprehend how much my mind 


200 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


has gone on this ; but, only ask yourself, how could my hap- 
piness be perfect, while yours was incomplete ?” 

“ If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been 
quite happy with you.” 

He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would 
have been unhappy without Charles, having seen him; and 
replied : 

“ My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not 
been Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been 
no other, I should have been the cause, and then the dark part 
of my life would have cast its shadow beyond myself, and 
would have fallen on you.” 

It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing 
him refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange 
and new sensation while his words were in her ears ; and she 
remembered it long afterwards. 

“See!” said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand 
towards the moon. “I have looked at her from my prison- 
window, when I could not bear her light. I have looked at 
her when it has been such torture to me to think of her shin- 
ing upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head, against 
my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and 
lethargic, that I have thought of nothing but the number of 
horizontal lines I could draw across her at the full, and the 
number of perpendicular lines with which I could intersect 
them.” He added in his inward and pondering manner, as 
he looked at the moon, “ It was twenty either way, I remem- 
ber, and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.” 

The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that 
time, deepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing 
to shock her in the manner of his reference. He only seemed 
to contrast his present cheerfulness and felicity with the dire 
endurance that was over. 

“ I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon 
the unborn child from whom I had been rent. Whether it 
was alive. Whether it had been born alive, or the poor 
mother's shock had killed it. Whether it was a son who 


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201 


would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in 
my imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbear- 
able.) Whether it was a son who would never know his 
father’s story; who might even live to weigh the possibility 
of his father’s having disappeared of his own will and act. 
Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.” 

She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.' 

“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly for- 
getful of me — rather, altogether ignorant of me, and uncon- 
scious of me. I have cast up the years of her age, year after 
year. I have seen her married to a man who knew nothing 
of my fate. I have altogether perished from the remem- 
brance of the living, and in the next generation my place was 
a blank.” 

“My father ! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of 
a daughter who never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had 
been that child.” 

“You, Lucie? It is out of the consolation and restoration 
you have brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and 
pass between us and the moon on this last night. — What 
did I say just now?” 

“She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.” 

“ So ! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness 
and the silence have touched me in a different way — have 
affected me with something as like a sorrowful sense of peace, 
as any emotion that had pain for its foundations could — I 
have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and leading 
me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen 
her image in the moonlight often, as I now see you ; except 
that I never held her in my arms ; it stood between the little 
grated window and the door. But, you understand that that 
was not the child I am speaking of?” 

“ The figure was not ; the — the — image ; the fancy ? ” 

“No. That was another thing. It stood before my dis- 
turbed sense of sight, but it never moved. The phantom 
that my mind pursued, was another and more real child. 
Of her outward appearance I know no more than that she 


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was like her mother. The other had that likeness too — as 
you have — but was not the same. Can you follow me, 
Lucie? Hardly, I think? I doubt you must have been a 
solitary prisoner to understand these perplexed distinctions.’ ’ 

His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood 
from running cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old con- 
dition. 

“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the 
moonlight, coming to me and taking me out to show me that 
the home of her married life was full of her loving remem- 
brance of her lost father. My picture was in her room, and 
I was in her prayers. Her life was active, cheerful, useful; 
but my poor history pervaded it all.” 

“I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but 
in my love that was I.” 

“And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of 
Beauvais, “and they had heard of me, and had been taught 
to pity me. When they passed a prison of the State, they 
kept far from its frowning walls, and looked up at its bars, 
and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I im- 
agined that she always brought me back after showing me 
such things. But then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell 
upon my knees, and blessed her.” 

“ I am that child, I hope, my father. 0 my dear, my dear, 
will you bless me as fervently to-morrow ? ” 

“ Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have 
to-night for loving you better than words can tell, and thank- 
ing God for my great happiness. My thoughts, when they 
were wildest, never rose near the happiness that I have known 
with you, and that we have before us.” 

He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, 
and humbly thanked Heaven for having bestowed her on 
him. By-and-bye, they went into the house. 

There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; 
there was even to be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. 
The marriage was to make no change in their place of resi- 
dence ; they had been able to extend it, by taking to them- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


203 


selves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the apocryphal 
invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more. 

Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. 
They were only three at table, and Miss Pross made the 
third. He regretted that Charles was not there; was more 
than half disposed to object to the loving little plot that kept 
him away; and drank to him affectionately. 

So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they 
separated. But, in the stillness of the third hour of the morn- 
ing, Lucie came down-stairs again, and stole into his room; 
not free from unshaped fears, beforehand. 

All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; 
and he lay asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled 
pillow, and his hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put 
her needless candle in the shadow at a distance, crept up to 
his bed, and put her lips to his; then, leaned over him, and 
looked at him. 

Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had 
worn; but, he covered up their tracks with a determination 
so strong, that he held the mastery of them even in his sleep. 
A more remarkable face in its quiet, resolute, and guarded 
struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be beheld in all 
the wide dominions of sleep, that night. 

She timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a 
prayer that she might ever be as true to him as her love as- 
pired to be, and as his sorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew 
her hand, and kissed his lips once more, and went away. So, 
the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves of the plane- 
tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved in 
praying for him. 


204 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


CHAPTER XVIII 

NINE DAYS 

The marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were 
ready outside the closed door of the Doctor’s room, where he 
was speaking with Charles Darnay. They were ready to go 
to church ; the beautiful bride, Mr. Lorry, and Miss Pross — 
to whom the event, through a gradual process of reconcile- 
ment to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss, 
but for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solo- 
mon should have been the bridegroom. 

“And so,” said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently ad- 
mire the bride, and who had been moving round her to take 
in every point of her quiet, pretty dress ; “ and so it was for 
this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought you across the Channel, 
such a baby ! Lord bless me ! How little I thought what 
I was doing ! How lightly I valued the obligation I was con- 
ferring on my friend Mr. Charles !” 

“You didn’t mean it,” remarked the matter-of-fact Miss 
Pross, “and therefore how could you know it? Nonsense !” 

“Really? Well; but don’t cry,” said the gentle Mr. 
Lorry. 

“I am not crying,” said Miss Pross; “ you are.” 

“I, my Pross?” (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be 
pleasant with her, on occasion.) 

“You were, just now ; I saw you do it, and I don’t wonder 
at it. Such a present of plate as you have made ’em, is 
enough to bring tears into anybody’s eyes. There’s not a 
fork or a spoon in the collection,” said Miss Pross, “that I 
didn’t cry over, last night after the box came, till I couldn’t 
see it.” 

“I am highly gratified,” said Mr. Lorry, “though, upon 
my honour, I had no intention of rendering those trifling arti- 
cles of remembrance invisible to any one. Dear me ! This 
is an occasion that makes a man speculate on all he has lost. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


205 


Dear, dear, dear ! To think that there might have been a 
Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!” 

“Not at all!” From Miss Pross. 

“You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?” 
asked the gentleman of that name. 

“Pooh!” rejoined Miss Pross; “you were a bachelor in 
your cradle.” 

“Well!” observed Mr. Lorey, beamingly adjusting his 
little wig, “that seems probable, too.” 

“ And you were cut out for a bachelor,” pursued Miss Pross, 
“before you were put in your cradle.” 

“Then, I think,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was very unhand- 
somely dealt with, and that I ought to have had a voice in 
the selection of my pattern. Enough ! Now, my dear Lu- 
cie,” drawing his arm soothingly round her waist, “I hear 
them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and I, as two 
formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final op- 
portunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. 
You leave your good father, my dear, in hands as earnest 
and as loving as your own;- he shall be taken every conceiv- 
able care of ; during the next fortnight, while you are in 
Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson’s shall go to the 
wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at 
the fortnight’s end, he comes to join you and your beloved 
husband, on your other fortnight’s trip in Wales, you shall 
say that we have sent him to you in the best health and in 
the happiest frame. Now, I hear Somebody’s step coming 
to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an old-fashioned 
bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his own.” 

For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the 
well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid 
the bright golden hair against his little brown wig, with a 
genuine tenderness and delicacy which, if such things be old- 
fashioned, were as old as Adam. 

The door of the Doctor’s room opened, and he came out 
with Charles Darnay. He was so deadly pale — which had 
not been the case when they went in together — that no ves- 


206 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


tige of colour was to be seen in his face. But, in the com- 
posure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the 
shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indi- 
cation that the old air of avoidance and dread had lately 
passed over him, like a cold wind. 

He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs 
to the chariot which Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the 
day. The rest followed in another carriage, and soon, in a 
neighbouring church, where no strange eyes looked on, 
Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married. 

Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of 
the little group when it was done, some diamonds, very bright 
and sparkling, glanced on the bride’s hand, which were newly 
released from the dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry’s pockets. 
They returned home to breakfast, and all went well, and in 
due course the golden hair that had mingled with the poor 
shoemaker’s white locks in the Paris garret, were mingled 
with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of 
the door at parting. 

It was a hard parting, though* it was not for long. But 
her father cheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging 
himself from her enfolding arms, “Take her, Charles! She 
is yours !” 

And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise win- 
dow, and she was gone. 

The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and 
the preparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, 
Mr. Lorry, and Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was 
when they turned into the welcome shade of the cool old hall, 
that Mr. Lorry observed a great change to have come over 
the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted there, had struck 
him a poisoned blow. 

He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion 
might have been expected in him when the occasion for re- 
pression was gone. But, it was the old scared lost look that 
troubled Mr. Lorry ; and through his absent manner of clasp- 
ing his head and drearily wandering away into his own room 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


207 


when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge 
the wine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride. 

“I think,” he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious con- 
sideration, “I think we had best not speak to him just now, 
or at all disturb him. I must look in at Tellson’s; so I will 
go there at once and come back presently. Then, we will 
take him a ride into the country, and dine there, and all 
will be well.” 

It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson’s, than to 
look out of Tellson’s. He was detained two hours. When 
he came back, he ascended the old staircase alone, having 
asked no question of the servant; going thus into the 
Doctor’s rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of 
knocking. 

“ Good God ! ” he said, with a start. “ What’s that ? ” 

Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. “0 me, 
O me ! All is lost!” cried she, wringing her hands. “What 
is to be told to Ladybird ? He doesn’t know me, and is mak- 
ing shoes ! ” 

Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went him- 
self into the Doctor’s room. The bench was turned towards 
the light, as it had been when he had seen the shoemaker at 
his work before, and his head was bent down, and he was very 
busy. 

“Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!” 

The Doctor looked at him for a moment — half inquir- 
ingly, half as if he were angry at being spoken to — and bent 
over his work again. 

He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat ; his shirt was open 
at the throat, as it used to be when he did that work ; and 
even the old haggard, faded surface of face had come back to 
him. He worked hard — impatiently — as if in some sense 
of having been interrupted. 

Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed 
that it was a shoe of the old size and shape. He took up 
another that was lying by him, and asked what it was ? 

“A young lady’s walking shoe,” he muttered, without look- 


208 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


ing up. “It ought to have been finished long ago. Let it 
be.” 

“But, Doctor Manette. Look at me !” 

He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, 
without pausing in his work. 

“You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is 
not your proper occupation. Think, dear friend ! ” 

Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, 
for an instant at a time, when he was requested to do so ; but, 
no persuasion would extract a word from him. He worked, 
and worked, and worked, in silence, and words fell on him as 
they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on the air. 
The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that 
he sometimes furtively looked up without being asked. In 
that, there seemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplex- 
ity — as though he were trying to reconcile some doubts in 
his mind. 

Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as 
important above all others ; the first, that this must be kept 
secret from Lucie; the second, that it must be kept secret 
from all who knew him. In conjunction with Miss Pross, he 
took immediate steps towards the latter precaution, by giv- 
ing out that the Doctor was not well, and required a few days 
of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be prac- 
tised on his daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing 
his having been called away professionally, and referring to 
an imaginary letter of two or three hurried lines in his own 
hand, represented to have been addressed to her by the same 
post. 

These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. 
Lorry took in the hope of his coming to himself. If that 
should happen soon, he kept another course in reserve; 
which was, to have a certain opinion that he thought the 
best, on the Doctor’s case. 

In the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third 
course being thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry re- 
solved to watch him attentively, with as Jittle appearance as 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


209 


possible of doing so. He therefore made arrangements to 
absent himself from Tellson's for the first time in his life, and 
took his post by the window in the same room. 

He was not long in discovering that it was worse than use- 
less to speak to him, since, on being pressed, he became wor- 
ried. He abandoned that attempt on the first day, and 
resolved merely to keep himself always before him, as a silent 
protest against the delusion into which he had fallen, or was 
falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the window, 
reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and 
natural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place. 

Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, 
and worked on, that first day, until it was too dark to see — 
worked on, half an hour after Mr. Lorry could not have seen, 
for his life, to read or write. When he put his tools aside as 
useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose and said to him : 

“ Will you go out ? ” 

He looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old 
manner, looked up in the old manner, and repeated in the 
old low voice : 

“Out?” 

“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?” 

He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word 
more. But, Mr. Lorry thought he saw, as he leaned forward 
on his bench in the dusk, with his elbows on his knees and 
his head in his hands, that he was in some misty way asking 
himself, “Why not?” The sagacity of the man of business 
perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it. 

Miss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and 
observed him at intervals from the adjoining room. He 
paced up and down for a long time before he lay down ; but, 
when he did finally lay himself down, he fell asleep. In the 
morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his bench 
and to work. 

On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by 
his name, and spoke to him on topics that had been of late 
familiar to them. He returned no reply, but it was evident 

p 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


that he heard what was said, and that he thought about it, 
however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry to have 
Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day ; at 
those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father 
then present, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there 
were nothing amiss. This was done without any demonstra- 
tive accompaniment, not long enough, or often enough to 
harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry's friendly heart to 
believe that he looked up oftener, and that he appeared to be 
stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding 
him. 

When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before : 

“Dear Doctor, will you go out?" 

As before, he repeated, “Out?" 

“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?" 

This time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could ex- 
tract no answer from him, and, after remaining absent for an 
hour, returned. In the meanwhile, the Doctor had removed 
to the seat in the window, and had sat there looking down 
at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry's return, he slipped 
away to his bench. 

The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry's hope dark- 
ened, and his heart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier 
and heavier every day. The third day came and went, the 
fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days, seven days, eight 
days, nine days. 

With a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always 
growing heavier and heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this 
anxious time. The secret was well kept, and Lucie was un- 
conscious and happy; but he could not fail to observe that 
the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first, was 
growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so 
intent on his work, and that his hands had never been so 
nimble and expert, as in the dusk of the ninth evening. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


211 


CHAPTER XIX 

AN OPINION 

Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at 
his post. On the tenth morning of his suspense, he was 
startled by the shining of the sun into the room where a 
heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark night. 

He rubbed his eyes and roused himself ; but he doubted, 
when he had done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, 
going to the door of the Doctor's room and looking in, he 
perceived that the shoemaker's bench and tools were put 
aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading at the 
window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face 
(which Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, 
was calmly studious and attentive. 

Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, 
Mr. Lorry felt giddily uncertain for some few moments 
whether the late shoemaking might not be a disturbed dream 
of his own ; for, did not his eyes show him his friend before 
him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed as 
usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the 
change of which he had so strong an impression had actually 
happened ? 

It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonish- 
ment, the answer being obvious. If the impression were not 
produced by a real corresponding and sufficient cause, how 
came he, Jarvis Lorry, there? How came he to have fallen 
asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor Manette's con- 
sulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the 
Doctor's bedroom door in the early morning ? 

Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his 
side. If he had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would 
of necessity have resolved it ; but he was by that time clear- 
headed, and had none. He advised that they should let the 
time go by until the regular breakfast-hour, and should then 


212 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual had occurred. If he 
appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr. Lorry 
would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance 
from the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to 
obtain. 

Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme 
was worked out with care. Having abundance of time for 
his usual methodical toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at 
the breakfast-hour in his usual white linen, and with his 
usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the usual 
way, and came to breakfast. 

So far as it was possible to comprehend him without over- 
stepping those delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. 
Lorry felt to be the only safe advance, he at first supposed 
that his daughter’s marriage had taken place yesterday. An 
incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to the day of the 
week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and count- 
ing, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, 
however, he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry de- 
termined to have the aid he sought. And that aid was his own. 

Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, 
and he and the Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, 
feelingly : 

“My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in 
confidence, on a very curious case in which I am deeply inter- 
ested; that is to say, it is very curious to me; perhaps, to 
your better information it may be less so.” 

Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late 
work, the Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. 
He had already glanced at his hands more than once. 

“Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, touching him affection- 
ately on the arm, “the case is the case of a particularly dear 
friend of mine. Pray give your mind to it, and advise me 
well for his sake — and above all, for his daughter’s — his 
daughter’s, my dear Manette.” 

“If I understand,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, 
“some mental shock ?” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


213 


•‘Yes!” 

“Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “Spare no detail.” 

Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and pro- 
ceeded. 

“My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged 
shock, of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the 
feelings, the — the — as you express it — the mind. The 
mind. It is the case of a shock under which the sufferer was 
borne down, one cannot say for how long, because I believe 
he cannot calculate the time himself, and there are no other 
means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from which 
the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace him- 
self — as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking man- 
ner. It is the case of a shock from which he has recovered, 
so completely, as to be a highly intelligent man, capable of 
close application of mind, and great exertion of body, and of 
constantly making fresh additions to his stock of knowledge, 
which was already very large. But, unfortunately, there has 
been,” he paused and took a deep breath — “a slight relapse.” 

The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “ Of how long duration ?” 

“Nine days and nights.” 

“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his hands 
again, “in the resumption of some old pursuit connected 
with the shock?” 

“That is the fact.” 

“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, distinctly 
and collectedly, though in the same low voice, “engaged in 
that pursuit originally?” 

“Once.” 

“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects 
— or in all respects — as he was then ? ” 

“I think in all respects.” 

“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of 
the relapse?” 

“ No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always 
be kept from her. It is known only to myself, and to one 
other who may be trusted.” 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, “That was 
very kind. That was very thoughtful !” Mr. Lorry grasped 
his hand in return, and neither of the two spoke for a little 
while. 

“Now, my dear Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his 
most considerate and most affectionate way, “I am a mere 
man of business, and unfit to cope with such intricate and 
difficult matters. I do not possess the kind of information 
necessary ; I do not possess the kind of intelligence ; I want 
guiding. There is no man in this world on whom I could so 
rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this 
relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a 
repetition of it be prevented ? How should a repetition of it 
be treated ? How does it come about at all ? What can I 
do for my friend? No man ever can have been more desir- 
ous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine, 
if I knew how. But I don’t know how to originate, in such 
a case. If your sagacity, knowledge, and experience, could 
put me on the right track, I might be able to do so much; 
unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little. Pray dis- 
cuss it with me ; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly, 
and teach me how to be a little more useful.” 

Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words 
were spoken, and Mr. Lorry did not press him. 

“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence 
with an effort, “that the relapse you have described, my dear 
friend, was not quite unforeseen by its subject.” 

“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask. 

“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder. 

“You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on 
the sufferer’s mind, and how difficult — how almost impos- 
sible — it is, for him to force himself to utter a word upon 
the topic that oppresses him.” 

“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he 
could prevail upon himself to impart that secret brooding to 
any one, when it is on him?” 

“ I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossi- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


215 


ble. I even believe it — in some cases — to be quite impos- 
sible.” 

“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doc- 
tor’s arm again, after a short silence on both sides, “to what 
would you refer this attack?” 

“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there had 
been a strong and extraordinary revival of the train of 
thought and remembrance that was the first cause of the 
malady. Some intense associations of a most distressing na- 
ture were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that there 
had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those asso- 
ciations would be recalled — say, under certain circumstances 
— say, on a particular occasion. He tried to prepare him- 
self in vain ; perhaps the effort to prepare himself made him 
less able to bear it.” 

“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” 
asked Mr. Lorry, with natural hesitation. 

The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his 
head, and answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.” 

“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry. 

“As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firmness, 
“I should have great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its 
mercy to restore him so soon, I should have great hope. He, 
yielding under the pressure of a complicated something, long 
dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against, 
and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should 
hope that the worst was over.” 

“Well, well! That’s good comfort. I am thankful!” 
said Mr. Lorry. 

“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head 
with reverence. 

“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I 
am anxious to be instructed. I may go on?” 

“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor 
gave him his hand. 

“To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusu- 
ally energetic; he applies himself with great ardour to the 


216 


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acquisition of professional knowledge, to the conducting of 
experiments, to many things. Now, does he do too much?” 

“I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be 
always in singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, 
natural to it ; in part, the result of affliction. The less it 
was occupied with healthy things, the more it would be in 
danger of turning in the unhealthy direction. He may have 
observed himself, and made the discovery.” 

“ You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?” 

“I think I am quite sure of it.” 

“ My dear Manette, if he were overworked now ” 

“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There 
has been a violent stress in one direction, and it needs a coun- 
terweight.” 

“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming 
for a moment, that he was overworked ; it would show itself 
in some renewal of this disorder?” 

“ I do not think so. I do not think,” said Doctor Manette 
with the firmness of self-conviction, “that anything but the 
one train of association would renew it. I think that, hence- 
forth, nothing but some extraordinary jarring of that chord 
could renew it. After what has happened, and after his 
recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any such violent sound- 
ing of that string again. I trust, and I almost believe, that 
the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.” 

He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how 
slight a thing would overset the delicate organisation of the 
mind, and yet with the confidence of a man who had slowly 
won his assurance out of personal endurance and distress. It 
was not for his friend to abate that confidence. He professed 
himself more relieved and encouraged than he really was, and 
approached his second and last point. He felt it to be the 
most difficult of all ; but, remembering his old Sunday morn- 
ing conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he 
had seen in the last nine days, he knew that he must face it. 

“The occupation resumed under the influence of this pass- 
ing affliction so happily recovered from,” said Mr, Lorry, 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


217 


clearing his throat, “we will call — Blacksmith’s work, 
Blacksmith’s work. We will say, to put a case and for the 
sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad time, 
to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unex- 
pectedly found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he 
should keep it by him?” 

The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat 
his foot nervously on the ground. 

“He has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with an 
anxious look at his friend. “Now, would it not be better 
that he should let it go?”- 

Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot ner- 
vously on the ground. 

“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. 
“I quite understand it to be a nice question. And yet I 
think ” And there he shook his head, and stopped. 

“You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an 
uneasy pause, “it is very hard to explain, consistently, the 
innermost workings of this poor man’s mind. He once 
yearned so frightfully for that occupation, and it was so wel- 
come when it came ; no doubt it relieved his pain so much, 
by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for the perplex- 
ity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more 
practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of 
the mental torture; that he has never been able to bear the 
thought of putting it quite out of his reach. Even now, 
when I believe he is more hopeful of himself than he has ever 
been, and even speaks of himself with a kind of confidence, 
the idea that he might need that old employment, and not 
find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which 
one may fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.” 

He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. 
Lorry’s face. 

“But may not — mind ! I ask for information, as a plod- 
ding man of business who only deals with such material ob- 
jects as guineas, shillings, and bank-notes — may not the 
retention of the thing involve the retention of the idea? If 


218 


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the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go 
with it ? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to 
keep the forge?” 

There was another silence. 

“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such 
an old companion.” 

“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; 
for he gained in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. 
“I would recommend him to sacrifice it. I only want your 
authority. I am sure it does no good. Come ! Give me 
your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter's 
sake, my dear Manette ! ” 

Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him ! 

“ In her name, then, let it be done ; I sanction it. But, I 
would not take it away while he was present. Let it be re- 
moved when he is not there ; let him miss his old companion 
after an absence.” 

Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was 
ended. They passed the day in the country, and the Doctor 
was quite restored. On the three following days he remained 
perfectly well, and on the fourteenth day he went away to 
join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that had been 
taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously 
explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance 
with it, and she had no suspicions. 

On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. 
Lorry went into his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and 
hammer, attended by Miss Pross carrying a light. There, 
with closed doors, and in a mysterious and guilty manner, 
Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while 
Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a mur- 
der — for which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuit- 
able figure. The burning of the body (previously reduced 
to pieces convenient for the purpose) was commenced without 
delay in the kitchen fire ; and the tools, shoes, and leather, 
were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction and 
secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


219 


Pross, while engaged in the commission of their deed and in 
the removal of its traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like 
accomplices in a horrible crime. 



CHAPTER XX 




A PLEA 


When the newly-married pair came home, the first person 
who appeared, to offer his congratulations, was Sydney Car- 
ton. They had not been at home many hours, when he pre- 
sented himself. He was not improved in habits, or in looks, 
or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity 
about him, which was new to the observation of Charles 
Darnay. 

He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a 
window, and of speaking to him when no one overheard. 

“Mr. Darnay,” said Carton, “I wish we might be friends.” 

“We are already friends, I hope.” 

“You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; 
but, I don't mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I 
say I wish we might be friends, I scarcely mean quite that, 
either.” 

Charles Darnay — as was natural — asked him, in all 
good-humour and good-fellowship, what he did mean? 

“Upon my life,” said Carton, smiling, “I find that easier 
to comprehend in my own mind, than to convey to yours. 
However, let me try. You remember a certain famous occa- 
sion when I was more drunk than — than usual?” 

“I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced 
me to confess that you had been drinking.” 

“ I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy 
upon me, for I always remember them. I hope it may be 
taken into account one day, when all days are at an end for 
me ! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to preach.” 


220 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything 
but alarming to me.” 

“Ah!” said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if 
he waved that away. “ On the drunken occasion in question 
(one of a large number, as you know), I was insufferable 
about liking you, and not liking you. I wish you would 
forget it.” 

“I forgot it long ago.” 

“Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is 
not so easy to me, as you represent it to be to you. I have 
by no means forgotten it, and a light answer does not help 
me to forget it.” 

“If it was a light answer,” returned Darnay, “I beg your 
forgiveness for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight 
thing, which, to my surprise, seems to trouble you too much, 
aside. I declare to you, on the faith of a gentleman, that I 
have long dismissed it from my mind. Good Heaven, what 
was there to dismiss ! Have I had nothing more important 
to remember, in the great service you rendered me that day ? ” 

“As to the great service,” said Carton, “I am bound to 
avow to you, when you speak of it in that way, that it was 
mere professional claptrap, I don’t know that I cared what 
became of you, when I rendered it. — Mind ! I say when I 
rendered it; I am speaking of the past.” 

“You make light of the obligation,” returned Darnay, 
“but I will not quarrel with your light answer.” 

“ Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me ! I have gone aside 
from my purpose; I was speaking about our being friends. 
Now, you know me; you know I am incapable of all the 
higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it, ask 
Stryver, and he’ll tell you so.” 

“I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.” 

“Well ! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who 
has never done any good, and never will.” 

“I don’t know that you ‘never will.’” 

“But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well ! If 
you could endure to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


221 


of such indifferent reputation, coming and going at odd times, 
I should ask that I might be permitted to come and go as a 
privileged person here ; that I might be regarded as an use- 
less (and I would add, if it were not for the resemblance I 
detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of 
furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice 
of. I doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hun- 
dred to one if I should avail myself of it four times in a year. 
It would satisfy me, I dare say, to know that I had it.” 

“Will you try?” 

“That is another way of saying that I am placed on the 
footing I have indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use 
that freedom with your name?” 

“I think so, Carton, by this time.” 

They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. 
Within a minute afterwards, he was, to all outward appear- 
ance, as unsubstantial as ever. 

When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed 
with Miss Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay 
made some mention of this conversation in general terms, 
and spoke of Sydney Carton as a problem of carelessness and 
recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not bitterly or 
meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who 
saw him as he showed himself. 

He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his 
fair young wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their 
own rooms, he found her waiting for him with the old pretty 
lifting of the forehead strongly marked. 

“We are thoughtful to-night!” said Darnay, drawing his 
arm about her. 

“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and 
the inquiring and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we 
are rather thoughtful to-night, for we have something on our 
mind to-night.” 

“ What is it, my Lucie ? ” 

“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I 
beg you not to ask it?” 


222 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?” 

What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair 
from the cheek, and his other hand against the heart that 
beat for him ! 

“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consid- 
eration and respect than you expressed for him to-night.” 

“ Indeed, my own ? Why so ? ” 

“That is what you are not to ask me. But I think — I 
know — he does.” 

“If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me 
do, my Life?” 

“I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him 
always, and very lenient on his faults when he is not by. I 
would ask you to believe that he has a heart he very, very 
seldom reveals, and that there are deep wounds in it. My 
dear, I have seen it bleeding.” 

“It is a painful reflection to me,” said Charles Darnay, 
quite astounded, “that I should have done him any wrong. 
I never thought this of him.” 

“My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; 
there is scarcely a hope that anything in his character or 
fortunes is reparable now. But, I am sure that he is capable 
of good things, gentle things, even magnanimous things.” 

She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost 
man, that her husband could have looked at her as she was 
for hours. 

“And, O my dearest Love !” she urged, clinging nearer to 
him, laying her head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to 
his, “remember how strong we are in our happiness, and how 
weak he is in his misery !” 

The supplication touched him home. “I will always re- 
member it, dear Heart ! I will remember it as long as I live.” 

He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, 
and folded her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then 
pacing the dark streets, could have heard her innocent dis- 
closure, and could have seen the drops of pity kissed away 
by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of that hus- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


2 23 


band, he might have cried to the night — and the words 
would not have parted from his lips for the first time — 

“ God bless her for her sweet compassion ! ” 



CHAPTER XXI 


ECHOING FOOTSTEPS 


A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, 
that corner where the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding 
the golden thread which bound her husband, and her father, 
and herself, and her old directress and companion, in a life of 
quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in the tranquilly re- 
sounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of years. 

At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy 
young wife, when her work would slowly fall from her hands, 
and her eyes would be dimmed. For, there was something 
coming in the echoes, something light, afar off, and scarcely 
audible yet, that stirred her heart too much. Fluttering 
hopes and doubts — hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her : 
doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new de- 
light — divided her breast. Among the echoes then, there 
would arise the sound of footsteps at her own early grave; 
and thoughts of the husband who would be left so desolate, 
and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her eyes, 
and broke like waves. 

That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. 
Then, among the advancing echoes, there was the tread of 
her tiny feet and the sound of her prattling words. Let 
greater echoes resound as they would, the young mother at 
the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, 
and the shady house was sunny with a child’s laugh, and the 
Divine friend of children, to whom in her trouble she had 
confided hers, seemed to take her child in His arms, as He 
took the child of old, and made it a sacred joy to her. 


224 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them 
all together, weaving the service of her happy influence 
through the tissue of all their lives, and making it predomi- 
nate nowhere, Lucie heard in the echoes of years none but 
friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband's step was 
strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and 
equal. Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the 
echoes, as an unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and 
pawing the earth under the plane-tree in the garden ! 

Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, 
they were not harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like 
her own, lay in a halo on a pillow round the worn face of a 
little boy, and he said, with a radiant smile, “Dear papa and 
mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to leave 
my pretty sister ; but I am called, and I must go ! " those 
were not tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's 
cheek, as the spirit departed from her embrace that had been 
entrusted to it. Suffer them and forbid them not. They 
see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words ! 

Thus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with 
the other echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had 
in them that breath of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that 
blew over a little garden-tomb were mingled with them also, 
and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed murmur — like 
the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore — 
as the little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morn- 
ing, or dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in 
the tongues of the Two Cities that were blended in her life. 

The echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney 
Carton. Some half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed 
his privilege of coming in uninvited, and would sit among 
them through the evening, as he had once done often. He 
never came there heated with wine. And one other thing 
regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been 
whispered by all true echoes for ages and ages. 

No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her 
with a blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


225 


a wife and a mother, but her children had a strange sympathy 
with him — an instinctive delicacy of pity for him. What 
fine hidden sensibilities are touched in such a case, no echoes 
tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton was the first 
stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms, 
and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy 
had spoken of him, almost at the last. “Poor Carton ! Kiss 
him for me !” 

Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some 
great engine forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged 
his useful friend in his .wake, like a boat towed astern. As 
the boat so favoured is usually in a rough plight, and mostly 
under water, so, Sydney had a swamped life of it. But, easy 
and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and stronger 
in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made 
it the life he was to lead ; and he no more thought of emerg- 
ing from his state of lion’s jackal, than any real jackal may 
be supposed to think of rising to be a lion. Stryver was 
rich; had married a florid widow with property and three 
boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them but 
the straight hair of their dumpling heads. 

These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding pat- 
ronage of the most offensive quality from every pore, had 
walked before him like three sheep to the quiet corner in 
Soho, and had offered as pupils to Lucie’s husband : deli- 
cately saying “ Halloa ! here are three lumps of bread-and- 
cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!” The 
polite rejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had 
quite bloated Mr. Stryver with indignation, which he after- 
wards turned to account in the training of the young gentle- 
men, by directing them to beware of the pride of Beggars, like 
that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of declaiming to 
Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts Mrs. 
Darnay had once put in practice to “catch” him, and on 
the diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which 
had rendered him “not to be caught.” Some of his King’s 
Bench familiars, who were occasionally parties to the full- 
Q 


226 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the latter by saying 
that he had told it so often, that he believed it himself — 
which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an origi- 
nally bad offence, as to justify any such offender’s being car- 
ried off to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out 
of the way. 

These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes 
pensive, sometimes amused and laughing, listened in the 
echoing corner, until her little daughter was six years old. 
How near to her heart the echoes of her child’s tread came, 
and those of her own dear father’s, always active and self- 
possessed, and those of her dear husband’s, need not be told. 
Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by 
herself with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more 
abundant than any waste, was music to her. Nor, how 
there were echoes all about her, sweet in her ears, of the many 
times her father had told her that he found her more devoted 
to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the many 
times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties 
seemed to divide her love for him or her help to him, and 
asked her “What is the magic secret, my darling, of your 
being everything to all of us, as if there were only one of us, 
yet never seeming to be hurried, or to have too much to do ?” 

But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rum- 
bled menacingly in the corner all through this space of time. 
And it was now, about little Lucie’s sixth birthday, that they 
began to have an awful sound, as of a great storm in France 
with a dreadful sea rising. 

On a night in mid- July, one thousand seven hundred and 
eighty-nine , 0 Mr. Lorry came in late, from Tellson’s, and sat 
himself down by Lucie and her husband in the dark window. 
It was a hot, wild night, and they were all three reminded 
of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the light- 
ning from the same place. 

“I began to think,” said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig 
back, “ that I should have to pass the night at Tellson’s. We 
have been so full of business all day, that we have not known 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


227 


what to do first, or which way to turn. There is such an un- 
easiness in Paris, that we have actually a run of confidence 
upon us ! Our customers over there, seem not to be able to 
confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively 
a mania among some of them for sending it to England.” 

“That has a bad look,” said Darnay. 

“A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we 
don’t know what reason there is in it. People are so unrea- 
sonable ! Some of us at Tellson’s are getting old, and we 
really can’t be troubled out of the ordinary course without 
due occasion.” 

“Still,” said Darnay, “you know how gloomy and threat- 
ening the sky is.” 

“I know that, to be sure,” assented Mr. Lorry, trying to 
persuade himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that 
he grumbled, “but I am determined to be peevish after my 
long day’s botheration. Where is Manette?” 

“Here he is,” said the Doctor, entering the dark room at 
the moment. 

“I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and 
forebodings by which I have been surrounded all day long, 
have made me nervous without reason. You are not going 
out, I hope ? ” 

“No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you 
like,” said the Doctor. 

“ I don’t think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am 
not fit to be pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard 
still there, Lucie? I can’t see.” 

“Of course, it has been kept for you.” 

“Thank ye, my deat. The precious child is safe in bed?” 

“And sleeping soundly.” 

“That’s right; all safe and well ! I don’t know why any- 
thing should be otherwise than safe and well here, thank 
God; but I have been so put out all day, and I am not as 
young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now, 
come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, 
and hear the echoes about which you have your theory.” 


228 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“Not a theory; it was a fancy.” 

“A fancy, then, my wise pet,”. said Mr. Lorry, patting her 
hand. “They are very numerous and very loud, though, 
are they not ? Only hear them ! ” 

Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way 
into anybody’s life, footsteps not easily made clean again if 
once stained red, the footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar 
off, as the little circle sat in the dark London window. 

Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass 
of scarecrows heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of 
light above the billowy heads, where steel blades and bayo- 
nets shone in the sun. A tremendous roar arose from the 
throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms struggled 
in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind : 
all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or 
semblance of a weapon that was thrown up from the depths 
below, no matter how far off. 

Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they 
began, through what agency they crookedly quivered and 
jerked, scores at a time, over the heads of the crowd, like a 
kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could have told ; but, 
muskets were being distributed — so were cartridges, powder, 
and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every 
weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. 
People who could lay hold of nothing else, set themselves 
with bleeding hands to force stones and bricks out of their 
places in walls. Every pulse and heart in Saint Antoine 
was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat. Every liv- 
ing creature there held life as of no account, and was de- 
mented with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it. 

As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all 
this raging circled round Defarge’s wine-shop, and every 
human drop in the caldron had a tendency to be sucked 
towards the vortex where Defarge himself, already begrimed 
with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms, thrust 
this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


229 


arm another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the up- 
roar. 

“Keep near to me, Jacques Three,” cried Defarge; “and 
do you, Jacques One and Two, separate* and put yourselves 
at the head of as many of these patriots as you can. Where 
is my wife?” 

“Eh, well! Here you see me!” said madame, composed 
as ever, but not knitting to-day. Madame ’s resolute right 
hand was occupied with an axe, in place of the usual softer 
implements, and in her girdle were a pistol and a cruel 
knife. 

“ Where do you go, my wife ?” 

“I go,” said madame, “with you at present. You shall 
see me at the head of women, by-and-bye.” 

“Come, then!” cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. 
“ Patriots and friends, we are ready ! The Bastille ! ” 

With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had 
been shaped into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave 
on wave, depth on depth, and overflowed the city to that 
point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums beating, the sea raging 
and thundering on its new beach, the attack begun. 

Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, 
eight great towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through 
the fire and through the smoke — in the fire and in the smoke, 
for the sea cast him up against a cannon, and on the instant 
he became a cannonier — Defarge of the wine-shop worked 
like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours. 

Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight 
great towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One draw- 
bridge down ! “ Work, comrades all, work ! Work, Jacques 

One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques Two 
Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand ; in the name 
of all the Angels or the Devils — which you prefer — work ! ” 
Thus Defarge of the wine-shop, still at his gun, which had 
long grown hot. 

“To me, women!” cried madame his wife. “What ! We 
can kill as well as the men when the place is taken ! ” And to 


230 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


her, with a shrill thirsty cry, trooping women variously 
armed, but all armed alike in hunger and revenge. 

Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke ; but, still the deep ditch, 
the single drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight 
great towers. Slight displacements of the raging sea, made 
by the falling wounded. Flashing weapons, blazing torches, 
smoking waggon-loads of wet straw, hard work at neighbour- 
ing barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys, execrations, 
bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the furi- 
ous sounding of the living sea ; but, still the deep ditch, and 
the single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the 
eight great towers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his 
gun, grown doubly hot by the service of Four fierce hours. 

A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley — this 
dimly perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible 
in it — suddenly the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, 
and swept Defarge of the wine-shop over the lowered draw- 
bridge, past the massive stone outer walls, in among the eight 
great towers surrendered ! 

So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that 
even to draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable 
as if he had been struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until 
he was landed in the outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, 
against an angle of a wall, he made a struggle to look about 
him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side; Madame De- 
farge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the inner 
distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was 
tumult, exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, 
astounding noise, yet furious dumb-show. 

“The Prisoners !” 

“The Records ! ” 

“The secret cells ! ^ 

“The instruments of torture!” 

“The Prisoners!” 

Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, “The 
Prisoners ! ” was the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed 
in, as if there were an eternity of people, as well as of time 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


231 


and space. When the foremost billows rolled past, bearing 
the prison officers with them, and threatening them all with 
instant death if any secret nook remained undisclosed, De-r 
farge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of these men 
— a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his 
hand — separated him from the rest, and got him between 
himself and the wall. 

“Show me the North Tower!” said Defarge. “Quick!” 

“I will faithfully,” replied the man, “if you will come with 
me. But there is no one there.” 

“What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North 
Tower?” asked Defarge. “Quick!” 

“The meaning, monsieur?” 

“Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do 
you mean that I shall strike you dead ? ” 

“Kill him!” croaked Jacques Three, who had come close 
up. 

“Monsieur, it is a cell.” 

“Show it me!” 

“Pass this way, then.” 

Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evi- 
dently disappointed by the dialogue taking a turn that did 
not seem to promise bloodshed, held by Defarge ’s arm as he 
held by the turnkey’s. Their three heads had been close to- 
gether during this brief discourse, and it had been as much 
as they could do to hear one another, even then : so tremen- 
dous was the noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into 
the Fortress, and its inundation of the courts and passages 
and staircases. All around outside, too, it beat the walls 
with a deep, hoarse roar, from which, occasionally, some par- 
tial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the air like spray. 

Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never 
shone, past hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavern- 
ous flights of steps, and again up steep rugged ascents of stone 
and brick, more like dry waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, 
the turnkey, and Jacques Three, linked hand and arm, went 
with all the speed they could make. Here and there, espe- 


232 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


cially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by ; 
but when they had done descending, and were winding and 
climbing up a tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by 
the massive thickness of walls and arches, the storm within 
the fortress and without was only audible to them in a dull, 
subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had come had 
almost destroyed their sense of hearing. 

The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing 
lock, swung the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent 
their heads and passed in : 

“One hundred and five, North Tower!” 

There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high 
in the wall, with a stone screen before it, so that the sky 
could be only seen by stooping low and looking up. There 
was a small chimney, heavily barred across, a few feet within. 
There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes on the hearth. 
There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were 
the four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of 
them. 

“Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see 
them,” said Defarge to the turnkey. 

The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely 
with his eyes. 

“ Stop ! — Look here, Jacques ! ” 

“A. M. !” croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily. 

“Alexandre Manette,” said Defarge in his ear, following 
the letters with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with 
gunpowder. “And here he wrote ‘a poor physician.’ And 
it was he, without doubt, who scratched a calendar on this 
stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it 
me !” 

He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He 
made a sudden exchange of the two instruments, and turn- 
ing on the worm-eaten stool and table, beat them to pieces 
in a few blows. 

“Hold the light higher!” he said, wrathfully, to the turn- 
key. “Look among those fragments with care, Jacques. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


233 


And see ! Here is my knife,” throwing it to him ; “rip open 
that bed, and search the straw. Hold the light higher, you ! ” 

With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the 
hearth, and, peering up the chimney, struck and prised at 
its sides with the crowbar, and worked at the iron grating 
across it. In a few minutes, some mortar and dust came 
dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and in 
it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney 
into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped 
with a cautious touch. 

“ Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques ? ” 

“Nothing.” 

“Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. 
So! Light them, you!” 

The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. 
Stooping again to come out at the low-arched door, they left 
it burning, and retraced their way to the courtyard ; seeming 
to recover their sense of hearing as they came down, until 
they were in the raging flood once more. 

They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge him- 
self. Saint Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop 
keeper foremost in the guard upon the governor who had 
defended the Bastille and shot the people. Otherwise, the 
governor would not be marched to the H6tel de Ville for 
judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the 
people’s blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of 
worthlessness) be unavenged. 

In the howling universe of passion and contention that 
seemed to encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his 
grey coat and red decoration, there was but one quite steady 
figure, and that was a woman’s. “See, there is my hus- 
band ! ” she cried, pointing him out. “ See Defarge ! ” She 
stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and remained 
immovable close to him ; remained immovable close to him 
through the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along ; 
remained immovable close to him when he was got near his 
destination, and began to be struck at from behind; re- 


234 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


mained immovable close to him when the long-gathering rain 
of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him when he 
dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put 
her foot upon his neck, and with her cruel knife — l.ong 
ready — hewed off his head. 

The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute 
his horrible idea of hoisting up men for lamps to show T what 
he could be and do. Saint Antoine’s blood was up, and the 
blood of tyranny and domination by the iron hand was down 

— down on the steps of the Hdtel de Ville where the gov- 
ernor’s body lay — down on the sole of the shoe of Madame 
Defarge where she had trodden on the body to steady it for 
mutilation. “Lower the lamp yonder!” cried Saint An- 
toine, after glaring round for a new means of death; “here 
is one of his soldiers to be left on guard ! ” The swinging 
sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on. 

. The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive 
upheaving of wave against wave, whose depths were yet un- 
fathomed and whose forces were yet unknown. The remorse- 
less sea of turbulently swaying shapes, voices of vengeance, 
and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering until the touch 
of pity could make no mark on them. 

But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious 
expression was in vivid life, there were two groups of faces 

— each seven in number — so fixedly contrasting with the 
rest, that never did sea roll which bore more memorable 
wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly released 
by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high 
overhead : all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as 
if the Last Day were come, and those who rejoiced around 
them were lost spirits. Other seven faces there were, car- 
ried higher, seven dead faces, whose drooping eyelids and 
half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive faces, yet 
with a suspended — not an abolished — expression on them ; 
faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the 
dropped lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless 
lips, “Thou didst it!” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


235 


Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the 
keys of the accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some 
discovered letters and other memorials of prisoners of old 
time, long dead of broken hearts, — such, and such-like, the 
loudly echoing footsteps of Saint Antoine escort through the 
Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and 
eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Dar- 
nay, and keep these feet far out of her life ! For, they are 
headlong, mad, and dangerous; and in the years so long 
after the breaking of the cask at Defarge's wine-shop door, 
they are not easily purified when once stained red. 


CHAPTER XXII 

THE SEA STILL RISES 

Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, 
in which to soften his modicum of hard and bitter bread to 
such extent as he could, with the relish of fraternal embraces 
and congratulations, when Madame Defarge sat at her coun- 
ter, as usual, presiding over the customers. Madame De- 
farge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of 
Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary 
of trusting themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps 
across his streets had a portentously elastic swing with them. 

Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning 
light and heat, contemplating the wine-shop and the street. 
In both, there were several knots of loungers, squalid and 
miserable, but now witli a manifest sense of power enthroned 
on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on the 
wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it : “I 
know how hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to 
support life in myself ; but do you know how easy it has 
grown for me, the wearer of this, to destroy life in you?" 
Every lean bare arm, that had been without work before, 


236 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike. 
The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the ex- 
perience that they could tear. There was a change in the 
appearance of Saint Antoine; the image had been hammer- 
ing into this for hundreds of years, and the last finishing 
blows had told mightily on the expression. 

Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed 
approval as was to be desired in the leader of the Saint An- 
toine women. One of her sisterhood knitted beside her. 
The short, rather plump wife of a starved grocer, and the 
mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had already 
earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance. 

“Hark!” said The Vengeance. “Listen, then! Who 
comes?” 

As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of 
Saint Antoine Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been sud- 
denly fired, a fast-spreading murmur came rushing along. 

“It is Defarge,” said madame. “Silence, patriots !” 

Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, 
and looked around him! “Listen, everywhere!” said 
madame again. “Listen to him!” Defarge stood, pant- 
ing, against a background of eager eyes and open mouths, 
formed outside the door ; all those within the wine-shop had 
sprung to their feet. 

“Say then, my husband. What is it?” 

“News from the other world!” 

“How, then?” cried madame, contemptuously. “The 
other world ? ” 

“Does everybody here recall old Foulon, 0 who told the 
famished people that they might eat grass, and who died, 
and went to Hell?” 

“Everybody!” from all throats. 

“The news is of him. He is among us!” 

“ Among us ! ” from the universal throat again. “ And 
dead ? ” 

“ Not dead ! He feared us so much — and with reason — 
that he caused himself to be represented as dead, and had a 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


237 


grand mock-funeral. But they have found him alive, hiding 
in the country, and have brought him in. I have seen him 
but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have 
said that he had reason to fear us. Say all ! Had he reason ? ” 

Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, 
if he had never known it yet, he would have known it in his 
heart of hearts if he could have heard the answering cry. 

A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his 
wife looked steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance 
stooped, and the jar of a drum was heard as she moved it 
at her feet behind the counter. 

“ Patriots!” said Defarge, in a determined voice, “are we 
ready?” 

Instantly Madame Defarge ’s knife was in her girdle; the 
drum was beating in the streets, as if it and a drummer had 
flown together by magic; and The Vengeance, uttering ter- 
rific shrieks, and flinging her arms about her head like all the 
forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to house, rousing 
the women. 

The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with 
which they looked from windows, caught up what arms they 
had, and came pouring down into the streets; but, the 
women were a sight to chill the boldest. From such household 
occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their children, 
from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground 
famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging 
one another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest 
cries and actions. Villain Foulon taken, my sister ! Old 
Foulon taken, my mother ! Miscreant Foulon taken, my 
daughter ! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of these, 
beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, 
Foulon alive ! Foulon who told the starving people they 
might eat grass! Foulon who told my old father that he 
might eat grass, when I had no bread to give him ! Foulon 
who told my baby it might suck grass, when these breasts 
were dry with want ! O mother of God, this Foulon ! 0 

Heaven, our suffering ! Hear me, my dead baby and my 


238 


A TALE OE TWO CITIES 


withered father : I swear on my knees, on these stones, to 
avenge you on Foulon ! Husbands, and brothers, and young 
men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon, 
Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of 
Foulon, Rend Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, 
that grass may grow from him ! With these cries, numbers 
of the women, lashed into blind frenzy, whirled about, striking 
and tearing at their own friends until they dropped into a 
passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men belonging 
to them from being trampled under foot. 

Nevertheless, not a moment was lost ; not a moment ! 
This Foulon was at the H6tel de Ville, and might be loosed. 
Never, if Saint Antoine knew his own sufferings, insults, and 
wrongs ! Armed men and women flocked out of the Quarter 
so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with such 
a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was 
not a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few 
old crones and the wailing children. 

No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Ex- 
amination where this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and 
overflowing into the adjacent open space and streets. The 
Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance, and Jacques 
Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance from 
him in the Hall. 

“ See ! ” cried madame, pointing with her knife. “ See 
the old villain bound with ropes. That was well done to 
tie a bunch of grass upon his back. Ha, ha ! That was well 
done. Let him eat it now!" Madame put her knife under 
her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play. 

The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, ex- 
plaining the cause of her satisfaction to those behind them, 
and those again explaining to others, and those to others, the 
neighbouring streets resounded with the clapping of hands. 
Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl, and the win- 
nowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge 's fre- 
quent expressions of impatience were taken up, with mar- 
vellous quickness, at a distance : the more readily, because 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


239 


certain men who had by some wonderful exercise of agility 
climbed up the external architecture to look in from the 
windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a telegraph 
between her and the crowd outside the building. 

At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray 
as of hope or protection, directly down upon the old pris- 
oner's head. The favour was too much to bear ; in an instant 
the barrier of dust and chaff that had stood surprisingly long, 
went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got him ! 

It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. 
Defarge had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded 
the miserable wretch in a deadly embrace — Madame Defarge 
had but followed and turned her hand in one of the ropes 
with which he was tied — The Vengeance and Jacques Three 
were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows had 
not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their 
high perches — when the cry seemed to go up, all over the 
city, “ Bring him out ! Bring him to the lamp ! ” 

Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the build- 
ing ; now, on his knees ; now, on his feet ; now, on his back ; 
dragged, and struck at, and stifled by the bunches of grass and 
straw that were thrust into his face by hundreds of hands; 
torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always entreating and 
beseeching for mercy ; now full of vehement agony of action, 
with a small clear space about him as the people drew one 
another back that they might see ; now, a log of dead wood 
drawn through a forest of legs ; he was hauled to the nearest 
street corner where one of the fatal lamps swung, and there 
Madame Defarge let him go — as a cat might have done to 
a mouse — and silently and composedly looked at him while 
they made ready, and while he besought her: the women 
passionately screeching at him all the time, and the men 
sternly calling out to have him killed with grass in his mouth. 
Once, he went aloft, and the rope broke, and they caught 
him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope broke, and 
they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and 
held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass 


240 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


enough in the mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the 
sight of. 

Nor was this the end of the day’s bad work, for Saint 
Antoine so shouted and danced his angry blood up, that it 
boiled again, on hearing when the day closed in that the 
son-in-law of the despatched, another of the people’s enemies 
and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard five 
hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his 
crimes on flaring sheets of paper, seized him — would have 
torn him out of the breast of an army to bear Foulon com- 
pany — set his head and heart on pikes, and carried the three 
spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession through the streets. 

Not before dark night did the men and women come back 
to the children, Wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable 
bakers’ shops were beset by long files of them, patiently 
waiting to buy bad bread; and while they waited with 
•stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by em- 
bracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving 
them again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged 
people shortened and frayed away ; and then poor lights began 
to shine in high windows, and slender fires were made in the 
streets, at which neighbours cooked in common, afterwards 
supping at their doors. 

Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, 
as of most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human 
fellowship infused some nourishment into the flinty viands, 
and struck some sparks of cheerfulness out of them. Fathers 
and mothers who had had their full share in the worst of the 
day, played gently with their meagre children; and lovers, 
with such a world around them and before them, loved and 
hoped. 

It was almost morning, when Defarge’s wine-shop parted 
with its last knot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to 
madame his wife, in husky tones, while fastening the door : 

“At last it is come, my dear !” 

“Eh well!” returned madame. “Almost.” 

Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept : even The Yen- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


241 


geance slept with her starved grocer, and the drum was at 
rest. The drum’s was the only voice in Saint Antoine that 
blood and hurry had not changed. The Vengeance, as 
custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had 
the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old 
Foulon was seized ; not so with the hoarse tones of the men 
and women in Saint Antoine’s bosom. 


CHAPTER XXIII 

FIRE RISES 

There was a change on the village where the fountain fell, 
and where the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer 
out of the stones on the highway such morsels of bread as 
might serve for patches to hold his poor ignorant soul and his 
poor reduced body together. The prison on the crag was not 
so dominant as of yore ; there were soldiers to guard it, but 
not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not 
one of them knew what his men would do — beyond this : 
that it would probably not be what he was ordered. 

Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but 
desolation. • Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade 
of grain, was as shrivelled and poor as the miserable people. 
Everything was bowed down, dejected, oppressed, and 
broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated animals, men, 
women, children, and the soil that bore them — all worn out. 

Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) 
was a national blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was 
a polite example of luxurious and shining life, and a great deal 
more to equal purpose ; nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class 
had, somehow or other, brought things to this. Strange 
that Creation, designed expressly for Monseigneur, should 
be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out ! There must be 
something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! 

R 


242 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Thus it was, however ; and the last drop of blood having been 
extracted from the flints, and the last screw of the rack having 
been turned so often that its purchase crumbled, and it now 
turned and turned with nothing to bite, Monseigneur began to 
run away from a phenomenon so low and unaccountable. 

But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a 
village like it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had 
squeezed it and wrung it, and had seldom graced it with his 
presence except for the pleasures of the chase — now, found 
in hunting the people ; now, found in hunting the beasts, for 
whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces of 
barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change con- 
sisted in the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather 
than in the disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and 
otherwise beautified and beautifying features of Monsei- 
gneur. 

For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, 
in the dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he 
was and to dust he must return, being for the most part too 
much occupied in thinking how little he had for supper and 
how much more he would eat if he had it — in these times, as 
he raised his eyes from his lonely labour, and viewed the pros- 
pect, he would see some rough figure approaching on foot, 
the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now 
a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads 
would discern without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired 
man, of almost barbarian aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that 
were clumsy even to the eyes of a mender of roads, grim, 
rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many highways, 
dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, 
sprinkled with the thorns and leaves and moss of many 
byways through woods. 

Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the 
July weather, as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, 
taking such shelter as he could get from a shower of hail. 

The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, 
at the mill, and at the prison on the crag. When he had 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


243 


identified these objects in what benighted mind he had, he 
said, in a dialect that was just intelligible : 

"How goes it, Jacques?” 

“All well, Jacques.” 

“Touch then !” 

They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of 
stones. 

“No dinner?” 

“ Nothing but supper now,” said the mender of roads, with 
a hungry face. 

“It is the fashion,” growled the man. “I meet no dinner 
anywhere.” 

He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint 
and steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow : then, 
suddenly held it from him and dropped something into it 
from between his finger and thumb, that blazed and went 
out in a puff of smoke. 

“Touch then.” It was the turn of the mender of roads 
to say it this time, after observing these operations. They 
again joined hands. 

“To-night?” said the mender of roads. 

“To-night,” said the man, putting the pipe in his 
mouth. 

“Where?” 

“Here.” 

He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones look- 
ing silently at one another, with the hail driving in between 
them like a pigmy charge of bayonets, until the sky began 
to clear over the village. 

“Show me!” said the traveller then, moving to the brow 
of the hill. 

“ See ! ” returned the mender of roads, with extended 
finger. “You go down here, and straight through the street, 
and past the fountain ” 

“To the Devil with all that !” interrupted the other, rolling 
his eye over the landscape. “ I go through no streets and past 
no fountains. Well?” 


244 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“ Well ! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill 
above the village.” 

“ Good. When do you cease to work ? ” 

“At sunset.” 

“Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked 
two nights without resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I 
shall sleep like a child. Will you wake me?” 

“Surely.” 

The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, 
slipped off his great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back 
on the heap of stones. He was fast asleep directly. 

As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail- 
clouds, rolling away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky 
which were responded to by silver gleams upon the land- 
scape, the little man (who wore a red cap now, in place of his 
blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the heap of 
stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he 
used his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to 
very poor account. The bronze face, the shaggy black hair 
and beard, the coarse woollen red cap, the rough medley dress 
of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of beasts, the powerful 
frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen and des- 
perate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender 
of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his 
feet were footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding ; his 
great shoes, stuffed with leaves and grass, had been heavy to 
drag over the many long leagues, and his clothes were chafed 
into holes, as he himself was into sores. Stooping down be- 
side him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at secret 
weapons in his breast or where not ; but, in vain, for he slept 
with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his 
lips. Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, 
gates, trenches, and drawbridges, seemed to the mender of 
roads, to be so much air as against this figure. And when 
he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and looked around, 
he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no 
obstacle, tending to centres all over France. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


2 45 


The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and inter- 
vals of brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to 
the pattering lumps of dull ice on his body and the diamonds 
into which the sun changed them, until the sun was low in the 
west, and the sky was glowing. Then, the mender of roads 
having got his tools together and all things ready to go down 
into the village, roused him. 

“Good!” said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. “Two 
leagues beyond the summit of the hill?” 

“About.” 

“About. Good!” 

The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on 
before him according to the set of the wind, and was soon at 
the fountain, squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought 
there to drink, and appearing even to whisper to them in his 
whispering to all the village. When the village had taken its 
poor supper, it did not creep to bed, as it usually did, but 
came out of doors again, and remained there. A curious 
contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it 
gathered together at the fountain in the dark, another curious 
contagion of looking expectantly at the sky in one direction 
only. Monsieur Gabelle, chief functionary of the place, 
became uneasy ; went out on his house-top alone, and looked 
in that direction too ; glanced down from behind his chim- 
neys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent 
word to the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that 
there might be need to ring the tocsin by-and-bye. 

The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, 
keeping its solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as 
though they threatened the pile of building massive and dark 
in the gloom. Up the two terrace flights of steps the rain ran 
wildly, and beat at the great door, like a swift messenger 
rousing those within ; uneasy rushes of wind went through the 
hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting 
up the stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last 
Marquis had slept. East, West, North, and South, through 
the woods, four heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the 


246 


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high grass and cracked the branches, striding on cautiously 
to come together in the courtyard. Four lights broke out 
there, and moved away in different directions, and all was 
black again. 

But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make 
itself strangely visible by some light of its own, as though it 
were growing luminous. Then, a flickering streak played 
behind the architecture of the front, picking out transparent 
places, and showing where balustrades, arches, and windows 
were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter. 
Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, 
and the stone faces awakened, stared out of fire. 

A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people 
who were left there, and there was a saddling of a horse and 
riding away. There was spurring and splashing through the 
darkness, and bridle was drawn in the space by the village 
fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur Gabelle’s 
door. “Help, Gabelle ! Help, every one!” The tocsin 
rang impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was 
none. The mender of roads, and two hundred and fifty par- 
ticular friends, stood with folded arms at the fountain, looking 
at the pillar of fire in the sky. “ It must be forty feet high,” 
said they, grimly; and never moved. 

The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, 
clattered away through the village, and galloped up the stony 
steep, to the prison on the crag. At the gate, a group of 
officers were looking at the fire ; removed from them, a group 
of soldiers. “Help, gentlemen-officers ! The chateau is on 
fire ; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by timely 
aid ! Help, help ! ” The officers looked towards the soldiers 
who looked at the fire ; gave no orders ; and answered, with 
shrugs and biting of lips, “It must burn.” 

As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the 
street, the village was illuminating. The mender of roads, 
and the two hundred and fifty particular friends, inspired 
as one man and woman by the idea of lighting up, had darted 
into their houses, and were putting candles in every dull 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


247 


little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything, 
occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory 
manner of Monsieur Gabelle ; and in a moment of reluctance 
and hesitation on that functionary’s part, the mender of 
roads, once so submissive to authority, had remarked that 
carriages were good to make bonfires with, and that post- 
horses would roast. 

The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the 
roaring and raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, 
driving straight from the infernal regions, seemed to be blow- 
ing the edifice away. With the rising and falling of the blaze, 
the stone faces showed as if they were in torment. When 
great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the two 
dints in the nose became obscured : anon struggled out of the 
smoke again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burn- 
ing at the stake and contending with the fire. 

The chateau burned ; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the 
fire, scorched and shrivelled ; trees at a distance, fired by the 
four fierce figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest 
of smoke. Molten lead and iron boiled in the marble basin 
of the fountain ; the water ran dry ; the extinguisher tops of 
the towers vanished like ice before the heat, and trickled 
down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and splits 
branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupe- 
fied birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace ; four 
fierce figures trudged away, East, West, North, and South, 
along the night-enshrouded roads, guided by the beacon 
they had lighted, towards their next destination. The 
illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and, abol- 
ishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy. 

Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, 
fire, and bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur 
Gabelle had to do with the collection of rent and taxes — 
though it was but a small instalment of taxes, and no rent at 
all, that Gabelle had got in those latter days — became im- 
patient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his house, 
summoned him to come forth for personal conference. 


248 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Whereupon, Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and 
retire to hold counsel with himself. The result of that con- 
ference was, that Gabelle again withdrew himself to his house- 
top behind his stack of chimneys ; this time resolved, if his 
door were broken in (he was a small Southern man of retalia- 
tive temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the 
parapet, and crush a man or two below. 

Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, 
with the distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating 
at his door, combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not 
to mention his having an ill-omened lamp slung across the 
road before his posting-house gate, which the village showed 
a lively inclination to displace in his favour. A trying sus- 
pense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of 
the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which 
Monsieur Gabelle had resolved ! But, the friendly dawn ap- 
pearing at last, and the rush-candles of the village guttering 
out, the people happily dispersed, and Monsieur Gabelle 
came down bringing his life with him for that while. 

Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, 
there were other functionaries less fortunate, that night and 
other nights, whom the rising sun found hanging across once- 
peaceful streets, where they had been born and bred; also, 
there, were other villagers and townspeople less fortunate 
than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the 
functionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they 
strung up in their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily 
wending East, West, North, and South, be that as it would; 
and whosoever hung, fire burned. The altitude of the gallows 
that would turn to water and quench it, no functionary, 
by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate success- 
fully. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


249 


CHAPTER XXIV 

DRAWN TO THE LOADSTONE ROCK° 

In such risings of fire and risings of sea — the firm earth 
shaken by the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, 
but was always on the flow, higher and higher, to the terror 
and wonder of the beholders on the shore — three years of 
tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays of little 
Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful 
tissue of the life of her home. 

Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the 
echoes in the corner, with hearts that failed them when they 
heard the thronging feet. For, the footsteps had become to 
their minds as the footsteps of a people, tumultuous under a 
red flag and with their country declared in danger, changed 
into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted in. 

Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the 
phenomenon of his not being appreciated : of his being so 
little wanted in France, as to incur considerable danger of 
receiving his dismissal from it, and this life together. Like 
the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with infinite pains, and 
was so terrified at the sight of him that he could ask the 
Enemy no question, but immediately fled ; so, Monseigneur, 
after boldly reading the Lord’s Prayer backwards for a great 
number of years, and performing many other potent spells 
for compelling the Evil One, no sooner beheld him in his 
terrors than he took to his noble heels. 

The shining Bull’s Eye of the Court was gone, or it would 
have been the mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It 
had never been a good eye to see with — had long had the 
mote in it of Lucifer’s pride, Sardanapalus’s luxury, and a 
mole’s blindness — but it had dropped out and was gone. 
The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its outermost 
rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was 
all gone together. Royalty was gone ; had been besieged in 


250 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


its Palace and “ suspended,” when the last tidings came 
over . 0 

The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and 
ninety-two was come, and Monseigneur was by this time scat- 
tered far and wide. 

As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering- 
place of Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson’s Bank. Spirits 
are supposed to haunt the places where their bodies most 
resorted, and Monseigneur without a guinea haunted the 
spot where his guineas used to be. Moreover, it was the spot 
to which such French intelligence as was most to be relied 
upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson’s was a munificent 
house, and extended great liberality to old customers who had 
fallen from their high estate. Again : those nobles who had 
seen the coming storm in time, and anticipating plunder or 
confiscation, had made provident remittances to Tellson’s, 
were always to be heard of there by their needy brethren. 
To which it must be added that every new-comer from France 
reported himself and his tidings at Tellson’s, almost as a 
matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson’s 
was at that time, as to French intelligence, a kind of High 
Exchange ; and this was so well known to the public, and the 
inquiries made there were in consequence so numerous, that 
Tellson’s sometimes wrote the latest news out in a line or so 
and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran through 
Temple Bar to read. 

On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, 
and Charles Darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in 
a low voice. The penitential den once set apart for inter- 
views with the House, was now the news-Exchange, and 
was filled to overflowing. It was within half an hour or so of 
the time of closing. 

“But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,” 
said Charles Darnay, rather hesitating, “I must still suggest 
to you 

“I understand. That I am too old?” said Mr. Lorry. 

“Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


251 


travelling, a disorganised country, a city that may not be even 
safe for you. ,, 

“My dear Charles, ” said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful con- 
fidence, “you touch some of the reasons for my going: not 
for my staying away. It is safe enough for me ; nobody 
will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard upon four- 
score when there are so many people there much better worth 
interfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it 
were not a disorganised city there would be no occasion to 
send somebody from our House here to our House there, who 
knows the city and the business, of old, and is in Tellson’s 
confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the long journey, 
and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit 
myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after 
all these years, who ought to be?” 

“I wish I were going myself,” said Charles Darnay, some- 
what restlessly, and like one thinking aloud. 

“Indeed ! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise !” 
exclaimed Mr. Lorry. “You wish you were going yourself? 
And you a Frenchman born ? You are a wise counsellor.” 

“My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, 
that the thought (which I did not mean to utter here, how- 
ever) has passed through my mind often. One cannot help 
thinking, having had some sympathy for the miserable 
people, and having abandoned something to them,” he spoke 
here in his former thoughtful manner, “that one might be 
listened to, and might have the power to persuade to some 
restraint. Only last night, after you had left us, when I 
was talking to Lucie ” 

“When you were talking to Lucie,” Mr. Lorry repeated. 
“ Yes. I wonder you are not ashamed to mention the name 
of Lucie ! Wishing you were going to France at this time of 
day ! ” 

“However, I am not going,” said Charles Darnay, with a 
smile. “It is more to the purpose that you say you are.” 

“And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear 
Charles,” Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and 


252 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


lowered his voice, “you can have no conception of the diffi- 
culty with which our business is transacted, and of the peril 
in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The 
Lord above knows what the compromising consequences 
would be to numbers of people, if some of our documents 
were seized or destroyed; and they might be, at any time, 
you know, for who can say that Paris is not set afire to-day, 
or sacked to-morrow ! Now, a judicious selection from these 
with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or 
otherwise getting of them out of harm’s way, is within the 
power (without loss of precious time) of scarcely any one but 
myself, if any one. And shall I hang back, when Tellson’s 
knows this and says this — Tellson’s, whose bread I have 
eaten these sixty years — because I am a little stiff about the 
joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers 
here ! ” 

“ How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. 
Lorry.” 

“Tut! Nonsense, sir! — And, my dear Charles,” said 
Mr. Lorry, glancing at the House again, “you are to remem- 
ber, that getting things out of Paris at this present time, no 
matter what things, is next to an impossibility. Papers and 
precious matters were this very day brought to us here (I 
speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to whisper 
it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine, 
every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as 
he passed the Barriers. At another time, our parcels would 
come and go, as easily as in business-like Old England ; but 
now, everything is stopped.” 

“And do you really go to-night?” 

“I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing 
to admit of delay.” 

“And do you take no one with you?” 

“All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will 
have nothing to say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. 
Jerry has been my body-guard on Sunday nights for a long 
time past, and I am^used to him. Nobody will suspect 


, A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


253 


Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or of having 
any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his 
master.” 

“I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry 
and youthfulness.” 

“I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have 
executed this little commission, I shall, perhaps, accept 
Tellson’s proposal to retire and live at my ease. Time 
enough, then, to think about growing old.” 

This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry’s usual desk, 
with Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, 
boastful of what he would do to avenge himself on the rascal- 
people before long. It was too much the way of Monseigneur 
under his reverses as a refugee, and it was much too much the 
way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this terrible 
Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under 
the skies that had not been sown — as if nothing had ever 
been done, or omitted to be done, that had led to it — as if 
observers of the wretched millions in France, and of the 
misused and perverted resources that should have made 
them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming, years 
before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. 
Such vapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of 
Monseigneur for the restoration of a state of things that had 
utterly exhausted itself, and worn out Heaven and earth as 
well as itself, was hard to be endured without some remon- 
strance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was 
such vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confu- 
sion of blood in his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in 
his mind, which had already made Charles Darnay restless, 
and which still kept him so. 

Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King’s Bench Bar, 
far on his way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the 
theme: broaching to Monseigneur, his devices for blowing 
the people up and exterminating them from the face of the 
earth, and doing without them - : and for accomplishing many 
similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition of eagles 


254 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay 
heard with a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay 
stood divided between going away that he might hear no more, 
and remaining to interpose his word, when the thing that was 
to be, went on to shape itself out. 

The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and 
unopened letter before him, asked if he had yet discovered 
any traces of the person to whom it was addressed? The 
House laid the letter down so close to Darnay that he saw the 
direction — the more quickly because it was his own right 
name. The address, turned into English, ran : 

“Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. 
Evr&nonde, of France. Confided to the cares of Messrs. 
Tellson and Co., Bankers, London, England.” 

On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his 
one urgent and express request to Charles Darnay, that the 
secret of this name should be — unless he, the Doctor, dis- 
solved the obligation — kept inviolate between them. 
Nobody else knew it to be his name ; his own wife had no sus- 
picion of the fact ; Mr. Lorry could have none. 

“No,” said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; “I have 
referred it, I think, to everybody now here, and no one can 
tell me where this gentleman is to be found.” 

The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the 
Bank, there was a general set of the current of talkers past 
Mr. Lorry’s desk-. He held the letter out inquiringly; and 
Monseigneur looked at it, in the person of this plotting and 
indignant refugee ; and Monseigneur looked at it in the person 
of that plotting and indignant refugee ; and This, That, and 
The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or 
in English, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found. 

“Nephew, I believe — but in any case degenerate successor 
— of the polished Marquis who was murdered,” said one. 
“Happy to say, I never knew him.” 

“A craven who abandoned his post,” said another — this 
Monseigneur had been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and 
half suffocated, in a load of hay — “some years ago.” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


255 


“ Infected with the new doctrines,” said a third, eyeing the 
direction through his glass in passing; “set himself in oppo- 
sition to the last Marquis, abandoned the estates when he 
inherited them, and left them to the ruffian herd. They 
will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.” 

“Hey?” cried the blatant Stryver. “Did he though? 
Is that the sort of fellow? Let us look at his infamous 
name. D — n the fellow!” 

Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. 
Stryver on the shoulder, and said: 

“I know the fellow.” 

“ Do you, by Jupiter ? ” said Stryver. “ I am sorry for it.” 

“Why?” 

“Why, Mr. Darnay? D’ye hear what he did? Don’t ask, 
why, in these times.” 

“But I do ask why?” 

“Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I 
am sorry to hear you putting any such extraordinary ques- 
tions. Here is a fellow, who, infected by the most pestilent 
and blasphemous code of devilry that ever was known, aban- 
doned his property to the vilest scum of the earth that ever 
did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry 
that a man who instructs youth knows him ? Well, but I’ll 
answer you. I am sorry because I believe there is contami- 
nation in such a scoundrel. That’s why.” 

Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked 
himself, and said : “You may not understand the gentleman.” 

“I understand how to put you in a corner, Mr. Darnay,” 
said Bully Stryver, “and I’ll do it. If this fellow is a gentle- 
man, I don’t understand him. You may tell him so, with my 
compliments. You may also tell him, from me, that after 
abandoning his worldly goods and position to this butcherly 
mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no, 
gentlemen,” said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping 
his fingers, “I know something of human nature, and I tell 
you that you’ll never find a fellow like this fellow, trusting 
himself to the mercies of such precious proteges . No, gentle- 


256 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES' 


men ; he’ll always show ’em a clean pair of heels very early 
in the scuffle, and sneak away.” 

With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. 
Stryver shouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the 
general approbation of his hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles 
Darnay were left alone at the desk, in the general departure 
from the Bank. 

“Will you take charge of the letter?” said Mr. Lorry. 
“You know where to deliver it ?” 

“I do.” 

“Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have 
been addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to 
forward it, and that it has been here some time ?” 

“I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?” 

“From here, at eight.” 

“I will come back, to see you off.” 

Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most 
other men, Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet 
of the Temple, opened the letter, and read it. These were 
its contents: 


“Prison of the Abbaye, 0 Paris. 

“June 21, 1792. 

“Monsieur heretofore the Marquis. 

“After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of 
the village, I have been seized, with great violence and 
indignity, and brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On 
the road I have suffered a great deal. Nor is that all; my 
house has been destroyed — razed to the ground. 

“The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur hereto- 
fore the Marquis, and for which I shall be summoned before 
the tribunal, and shall lose my life (without your so generous 
help), is, they tell me, treason against the majesty of the 
people, in that I have acted against them for an emigrant. 
It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not 
against, according to your commands. It is in vain I repre- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


257 


sent that, before the sequestration of emigrant property, I 
had remitted the imposts they had ceased to pay ; that I had 
collected no rent; that I had had recourse to no process. 
The only response is, that I have acted for an emigrant, and 
where is that emigrant ? 

“Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, 
where is that emigrant ? I cry in my sleep where is he ? I 
demand of Heaven, will he not come to deliver me? No 
answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I send my 
desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your 
ears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris ! 

“ For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the 
honour of your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur here- 
tofore the Marquis, to succour and release me. My fault is, 
that I have been true to you. Oh Monsieur heretofore the 
Marquis, I pray you be you true to me ! 

“From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend 
nearer and nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur here- 
tofore the Marquis, the assurance of my dolorous and un- 
happy service. 

“Your afflicted, 

“Gabelle.” 

The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigor- 
ous life by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good 
one, whose only crime was fidelity to himself and his family, 
stared him so reproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to 
and fro in the Temple considering what to do, he almost hid 
his face from the passers-by. 

He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had 
culminated the bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family 
house, in his resentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aver- 
sion with which his conscience regarded the crumbling fabric 
that he was supposed to uphold, he had acted imperfectly. 
He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie, his renunciation 
of his social place, though by no means new to his own mind, 
had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought 


258 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


to have systematically worked it out and supervised it, and 
that he had meant to do it, and that it had never been done. 

The happiness of his own chosen English home, the neces- 
sity of being always actively employed, the swift changes and 
troubles of the time which had followed on one another so fast, 
that the events of this week annihilated the immature plans 
of last week, and the events of the week following made all 
new again ; he knew very well, that to the force of these cir- 
cumstances he had yielded : — not without disquiet, but 
still without continuous and accumulating resistance. That 
he had watched the times for a time of action, and that they 
had shifted and struggled until the time had gone by, and the 
nobility were trooping from France by every highway and by- 
way, and their property was in course of confiscation and 
destruction, and their very names were blotting out, was as 
well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in 
France that might impeach him for it. 

But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man ; 
he was so far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, 
that he had relinquished them of his own will, thrown himself 
on a world with no favour in it, won his own private place 
there, and earned his own bread. Monsieur Gabelle had held 
the impoverished and involved estate on written instructions, 
to spare the people, to give them what little there was to give 
— such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have in the 
winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same 
grip in the summer — and no doubt he had put the fact in plea 
and proof, for his own safety, so that it could not but appear 
now. 

This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had 
begun to make, that he would go to Paris. 

Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and 
streams had driven him within the influence of the Load- 
stone Rock, and it was drawing him to itself, and he must go. 
Everything that arose before his mind drifted him on, faster 
and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible attraction. 
His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


259 


worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, 
and that he who could not fail to know that he was better 
than they, was not there, trying to do something to stay 
bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy and humanity. 
With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching him, 
he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself 
with the brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; 
upon that comparison (injurious to himself) had instantly 
followed the sneers of Monseigneur, which had stung him 
bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were coarse 
and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed 
Gabelle's letter : the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in 
danger of death, to his justice, honour, and good name. 

His resolution was made. He must go to Paris. 

Yes. The Loadstone- Rock was drawing him, and he must 
sail on, until he struck. He knew of no rock ; he saw hardly 
any danger. The intention with which he had done what he 
had done, even although he had left it incomplete, presented it 
before him in an aspect that would be gratefully acknowledged 
in France on his presenting himself to assert it. Then, that 
glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the sanguine 
mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even 
saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this 
raging Revolution that was running so fearfully wild. 

As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he con- 
sidered that neither Lucie nor her father must know of it 
until he was gone. Lucie should be spared the pain of separa- 
tion; and her father, always reluctant to turn his thoughts 
towards the dangerous ground of old, should come to the 
knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in the balance 
of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness 
of his situation was referable to her father, through the pain- 
ful anxiety to avoid reviving old associations of France in 
his mind, he did not discuss with himself. But, that circum- 
stance too, had had its influence in his course. 

He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it 
was time to return to Tellson’s and take leave of Mr. Lorry. 


260 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


As soon as he arrived in Paris he would present himself to this 
old friend, but he must say nothing of his intention now. 

A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, 
and Jerry was booted and equipped. 

“I have delivered that letter,” said Charles Darnay to 
Mr. Lorry. “ I would not consent to your being charged with 
any written answer, but perhaps you will take a verbal one ?” 

“That I will, and readily,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it is not 
dangerous.” 

“Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.” 

“ What is his name ? ” said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket- 
book in his hand. 

“Gabelle.” 

“Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate 
Gabelle in prison ? ” 

“Simply, ‘that he has received the letter, and will come. 7 ” 

“ Any time mentioned ? ” 

“He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.” 

“Any person mentioned?” 

“No.” 

He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats 
and cloaks, and went out with him from the warm atmosphere 
of the old Bank, into the misty air of Fleet-street. “ My love 
to Lucie, and to little Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry at parting, 
“and take precious care of them till I come back. 7 7 Charles 
Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the car- 
riage rolled away. 

That night — it was the fourteenth of August — he sat up 
late, and wrote two fervent letters ; one was to Lucie, explain- 
ing the strong obligation he was under to go to Paris, and 
showing her, at length, the reasons that he had, for feeling 
confident that he could become involved in no personal danger 
there ; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and their 
dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with 
the 'strongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would 
despatch letters in proof of his safety, immediately after his 
arrival. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


261 


It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the 
first reservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a 
hard matter to preserve the innocent deceit of which they 
were profoundly unsuspicious. But, an affectionate glance at 
his wife, so happy and busy, made him resolute not to tell her 
what impended (he had been half moved to do it, so strange 
it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and 
the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced 
her, and her scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he 
would return by-and-bye (an imaginary engagement took him 
out, and he had secreted a valise of clothes ready), an$d so he 
emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy streets, with a 
heavier heart. 

The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and 
all the tides and winds were setting straight and strong 
towards it. He left his two letters with a trusty porter, to be 
delivered half an hour before midnight, and no sooner; took 
horse for Dover; and began his journey. “For the love of 
Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of your noble 
name !” was the poor prisoner’s cry with which he strength- 
ened his sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth 
behind him, and floated away for the Loadstone Rock. 


THE END OF THE SECOND BOOK 


BOOK THE THIRD 

THE TRACK OF A STORM 


CHAPTER I 

IN SECRET 

The traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards 
Paris from England in the autumn of the year one thousand 
seven hundred and ninety- two. More than enough of bad 
roads, bad equipages, and bad horses, he would have en- 
countered to delay him, though the fallen and unfortunate 
King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory; 
but, the changed times were fraught with other obstacles 
than these. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had 
its band of citizen-patriots, with their national muskets in a 
most explosive state of readiness, who stopped all comers and 
goers, cross-questioned them, inspected their papers, looked 
for their names in lists of their own, turned them back, or sent 
them on, or stopped them and laid them in hold, as their 
capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning 
Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Frater- 
nity, or Death. 

A very few French leagues of his journey were accom- 
plished, when Charles Darnay began to perceive that for him 
along these country roads there was no hope of return until 
he should have been declared a good citizen at Paris. What- 
ever might befall now, he must on to his journey’s end. Not 
a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped 
across the road behind him, but he knew it to be another iron 
door in the series that was barred between him and England. 

262 


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263 


The universal watchfulness so encompassed him, that if he 
had been taken in a net, or were being forwarded to his des- 
tination in a cage, he could not have felt his freedom more 
completely gone. 

This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the 
highway twenty times in a stage, but retarded his progress 
twenty times in a day, by riding after him and taking him 
back, riding before him and stopping him by anticipation, 
riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been 
days upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed 
tired out, in a little town on the high road, still a long way 
from Paris. 

Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle’s letter 
from his prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. 
His difficulty at the guard-house in this small place had been 
such, that he felt his journey to have come to a crisis. And 
he was, therefore, as little surprised as a man could be, to 
find himself awakened at the small inn to which he had been 
remitted until morning, in the middle of the night. 

Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed 
patriots in rough red caps and with pipes in their mouths, 
who sat down on the bed. 

“Emigrant,” said the functionary, “I am going to send 
you on to Paris, under an escort.” 

“Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though 
I could dispense with the escort.” 

“Silence !” growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with 
the butt-end of his musket. “Peace, aristocrat !” 

“It is as the good patriot says,” observed the timid func- 
tionary. “ You are an aristocrat, and must have an escort — 
and must pay for it.” 

“I have no choice,” said Charles Darnay. 

“Choice! Listen to him!” cried the same scowling red- 
cap. “As if it was not a favour to be protected from the 
lamp- iron ! ” 

“It is always as the good patriot says,” observed the 
functionary. “Rise and dress yourself, emigrant.” 


264 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, 
where other patriots in rough red caps were smoking, drink- 
ing, and sleeping, by a watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy 
price for his escort, and hence he started with it on the wet, 
wet roads at three o’clock in the morning. 

The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and 
tricoloured cockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, 
who rode one on either side of him. 

The escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was 
attached to his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots 
kept girded round his wrist. In this state they set forth with 
the sharp rain driving in their faces: clattering at a heavy 
dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement, and out upon 
the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without 
change, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues 
that lay between them and the capital. 

They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after 
daybreak, and lying by until the twilight fell. The escort 
were so wretchedly clothed, that they twisted straw round 
their bare legs, and thatched their ragged shoulders to keep 
the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of being so 
attended, and apart from such considerations of present dan- 
ger as arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, 
and carrying his musket very recklessly, Charles Darnay 
did not allow the restraint that was laid upon him to awaken 
any serious fears in his breast ; for, he reasoned with himself 
that it could have no reference to the merits of an individual 
case that was not yet stated, and of representations, confirm- 
able by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made. 

But when they came to the town of Beauvais — which 
they did at eventide, when the streets were filled with people 
— he could not conceal from himself that the aspect of affairs 
was very alarming. An ominous crowd gathered to see him 
dismount at the posting-yard, and many voices called out 
loudly, “Down with the emigrant!” 

He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, 
and, resuming it as his safest place, said : 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


265 


“ Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in 
France, of my own will ? ” 

“You are a cursed emigrant,” cried a farrier, making at 
him in a furious manner through the press, hammer in hand ; 
“and you are a cursed aristocrat!” 

The postmaster interposed himself between this man and 
the rider’s bridle (at which he was evidently making), and 
soothingly said, “ Let him be ; let him be ! He will be judged 
at Paris.” 

“Judged!” repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. 
“Ay! and condemned as a traitor.” At this the crowd 
roared approval. 

Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse’s 
head to the yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his 
saddle looking on, with the line round his wrist), Darnay 
said, as soon as he could make his voice heard : 

“Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. 
I am not a traitor.” 

“He lies!” cried the smith. “He is a traitor since the 
•decree. His life is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is 
not his own ! ” 

At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the 
crowd, which another instant would have brought upon him, 
the postmaster turned his horse into the yard, the escort 
rode in close upon his horse’s flanks, and the postmaster shut 
and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier struck a blow 
upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, 
no more was done. 

“What is this decree that the smith spoke of?” Darnay 
asked the postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood 
beside him in the yard. 

“Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.” 

“When passed?” 

“On the fourteenth.” 

“The day I left England!” 

“Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there 
will be others — if there are not already — banishing all 


266 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


emigrants, and condemning all to death who return. That 
is what he meant when he said your life was not your own.” 

“But there are no such decrees yet?” 

“What do I know!” said the postmaster, shrugging his 
shoulders; “there may be, or there will be. It is all the 
same. What would you have?” 

They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the 
night, and then rode forward again when all the town was 
asleep. Among the many wild changes observable on 
familiar things which made this wild ride unreal, not the least 
was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and lonely spur- 
ring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor 
cottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, 
and would find the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of 
the night, circling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of 
Liberty, or all drawn up together singing a Liberty song. 
Happily, however, there was sleep in Beauvais that night 
to help them out of it, and they passed on once more into 
solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold 
and wet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits' 
of the earth that year, diversified by the blackened remains 
of burnt houses, and by the sudden emergence from ambus- 
cade, and sharp reining up across their way, of patriot patrols 
on the watch on all the roads. 

Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The 
barrier was closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to 
it. 

“Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded a 
resolute-looking man in authority, who was summoned out 
by the guard. 

Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay 
requested the speaker to take notice that he was a free 
traveller and French citizen, in charge of an escort which the 
disturbed state of the country had imposed upon him, and 
which he had paid for. 

“Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking 
any heed of him whatever, “are the papers of this prisoner?” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


267 


The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced 
them. Casting his eyes over Gabelle’s letter, the same per- 
sonage in authority showed some disorder and surprise, and 
looked at Darnay with a close attention. 

He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, 
and went into the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon 
their horses outside the gate. Looking about him while in 
this state of suspense, Charles Darnay observed that the gate 
was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and patriots, the latter 
far outnumbering the former ; and that while ingress into the 
city for peasants’ carts bringing in supplies, and for similar 
traffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the 
homeliest people, was very difficult. A numerous medley 
of men and women, not to mention beasts and vehicles of 
various sorts, was waiting to issue forth ; but, the previous 
identification was so strict, that they filtered through the 
barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew their turn 
for examination to be so far off, that they lay down on the 
ground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or 
loitered about. The red cap and tricolour cockade were 
universal, both among men and women. 

When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note 
of these things, Darnay found himself confronted by the same 
man in authority, who directed the guard to open the barrier. 
Then he delivered to the escort, drunk and sober, a receipt for 
the escorted, and requested him to dismount. He did so, 
and the two patriots, leading his tired horse, turned and rode 
away without entering the city. 

He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling 
of common wine and .tobacco, where certain soldiers and 
patriots, asleep and awake, drunk and sober, and in various 
neutral states between sleeping and waking, drunkenness and 
sobriety, were standing and lying about. The light in the 
guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of the 
night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspond- 
ingly uncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a 
desk, and aivofficer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these. 


268 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay’s conductor, as he 
took a slip of paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant 
Evremonde ?” 

“This is the man.” 

“Your age, Evremonde ?” 

“Thirty-seven.’’ 

“Married, Evremonde?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where married?” 

“In England.” 

“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde ?” 

“In England.” 

“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the 
prison of La Force . 0 ” 

“Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what law, 
and for what offence?” 

The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment. 

“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since 
you were here.” He said it with a hard smile, and went on 
writing. 

“ I entreat you to observe that I have come here volun- 
tarily, in response to that written appeal of a fellow- 
countryman which lies before you. I demand no more than 
the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that my 
right?” 

“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the stolid 
reply. The officer wrote until he had finished, read over to 
himself what he had written, sanded it, and handed it to 
Defarge, with the words “In secret.” 

Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he 
must accompany him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard 
of two armed patriots attended them. 

“Is it you,” said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went 
down the guard-house steps and turned into Paris, “who 
married the daughter of Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in 
the Bastille that is no more?” 

“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


269 


“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the 
Quarter Saint Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.” 

“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? 

res!” 

The word “wife” seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder 
to Defarge, to say with sudden impatience, “In the name of 
that sharp female newly-born, and called La Guillotine, why 
| did you come to France?” 

“You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe 
j it is the truth?” 

“A bad truth for you,” said Defarge, speaking with knitted 
brows, and looking straight before him. 

“Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so 
j changed, so sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. 
Will you render me a little help?” 

“None.” Defarge spoke, always looking straight before 
him. 

“Will you answer me a single question?” 

“Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what 
| it is.” 

“In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have 
some free communication with the world outside ? ” 

“You will see.” 

“I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any 
means of presenting my case?” 

“You will see. But, what then ? Other people have been 
similarly buried in worse prisons, before now.” 

“But never by me, Citizen Defarge.” 

Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on 
in a steady and set silence. The deeper he sank into this 
silence, the fainter hope there was — or so Darnay thought — 
of his softening in any slight degree. He, therefore, made 
haste to say: 

“It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, 
even better than I, of how much importance), that I should 
be able to communicate to Mr. Lorry of Tellson’s Bank, an 
English gentleman who is now in Paris, the simple fact, without 


270 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


comment, that I have been thrown into the prison of La 
Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?” 

“I will do,” Defarge doggedly rejoined, “ nothing for you. 
My duty is to my country and the People. I am the sworn 
servant of both, against you. I will do nothing for you.” 

Charles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, 
and his pride was touched besides. As they walked on in 
silence, he could not but see how used the people were to the 
spectacle of prisoners passing along the streets. The very 
children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned their 
heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat ; 
otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to 
prison, was no more remarkable than that a labourer in 
working clothes should be going to work. In one narrow, 
dark, and dirty street through which they passed, an excited 
orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited audi- 
ence on the crimes against the people, of the king and the 
royal family. The few words that he caught from this man’s 
lips, first made it known to Charles Darnay that the king 
was in prison, and that the foreign ambassadors had one and 
all left Paris. On the road (except at Beauvais) he had 
heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal 
watchfulness had completely isolated him. 

That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those 
which had developed themselves when he left England, he 
of course knew now. That perils had thickened about him 
fast, and might thicken faster and faster yet, he of course 
knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he might 
not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the 
events of a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so 
dark as, imagined by the light of this later time, they would 
appear. Troubled as the future was, it was the unknown 
future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant hope. The 
horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few 
rounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the 
blessed garnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowl- 
edge as if it had been a hundred thousand years away. The 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


271 


“ sharp female newly-born, and called La Guillotine/’ was 
hardly known to him, or to the generality of people, by 
name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, 
were probably unimagined at that time in the brains of the 
doers. How could they have a place in the shadowy concep- 
tions of a gentle mind? 

Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in 
cruel separation from his wife and child, he foreshadowed the 
likelihood, or the certainty; but, beyond this, he dreaded 
nothing distinctly. With this on his mind, which was enough 
to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he arrived at the 
prison of La Force. 

A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to 
whom Defarge presented “The Emigrant Evremonde.” 

“What the Devil ! How many more of them !” exclaimed 
the man with the bloated face. 

Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, 
and withdrew, with his two fellow-patriots. 

“What the Devil, I say again!” exclaimed the gaoler, 
left with his wife. “How many more !” 

The gaoler’s wife, being provided with no answer to the 
question, merely replied, “One must have patience, my 
dear ! ” Three turnkeys who entered responsive to a bell 
she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, “For the love 
of Liberty;” which sounded in that place like an inappro- 
priate conclusion. 

The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, 
and with a horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary 
how soon the noisome flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes 
manifest in all such places that are ill cared for ! 

“In secret, too,” grumbled the gaoler, looking at the 
written paper. “ As if I was not already full to bursting ! ” 

He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles 
Darnay awaited his further pleasure for half an hour : some- 
times, pacing to and fro in the strong arched room : some- 
times, resting on a stone seat : in either case detained to be 
imprinted on the memory of the chief and his subordinates. 


272 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“Come!” said the chief, at length taking up his keys, 
“come with me, emigrant.” 

Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge ac- 
companied him by corridor and staircase, many doors clang- 
ing and locking behind them, until they came into a large, 
low, vaulted chamber, crowded with prisoners of both sexes. 
The women were* seated at a long table, reading and writing, 
knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the 
most part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and 
down the room. 

In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful 
crime and disgrace, the new comer recoiled from this company. 
But the crowning unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their 
all at once rising to receive him, with every refinement of 
manner known to the time, and with all the engaging graces 
and courtesies of life. 

So strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison 
manners and gloom, so spectral did they become in the in- 
appropriate squalor and misery through which they were seen, 
that Charles Darnay seemed to stand in a company of the 
dead. Ghosts all ! The ghost of beauty, the ghost of state- 
liness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of 
frivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of 
age, all waiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all 
turning on him eves that were changed by the death they had 
died in coming there. 

It struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, 
and the other gaolers moving about, who would have been 
well enough as to appearance in the ordinary exercise of their 
functions, looked so extravagantly coarse contrasted with 
sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were there — 
with the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and 
the mature woman delicately bred — that the inversion of all 
experience and likelihood which the scene of shadows pre- 
sented, was heightened to its utmost. Surely, ghosts all. 
Surely, the long unreal ride some progress of disease that had 
brought him to these gloomy shades ! 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


273 


“In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,” 
said a gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming 
forward, “ I have the honour of giving you welcome to La 
Force, and of condoling with you on the calamity that has 
brought you among us. May it soon terminate happily ! 
It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here, 
to ask your name and condition?” 

Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required 
information, in words as suitable as he could find. 

“But I hope,” said the gentleman, following the chief 
gaoler with his eyes, who moved across the room, “that you 
are not in secret?” 

“I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have 
heard them say so.” 

“Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take 
courage ; several members of our society have been in secret, 
at first, and it has lasted but a short time.” Then he added, 
raising his voice, “ I grieve to inform the society — in 
secret.” 

There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay 
crossed the room to a grated door where the gaoler awaited 
him, and many voices — among which, the soft and com- 
passionate voices of women were conspicuous — - gave him 
good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated 
door, to render the thanks of his heart; it closed under the 
gaoler's hand; and the apparitions vanished from his sight 
for ever. 

The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. 
When they had ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an 
hour already counted them), the gaoler opened a low black 
door, and they passed into a solitary cell. It struck cold and 
damp, but was not dark. 

“Yours,” said the gaoler. 

“Why am I confined alone?” 

“How do I know !” 

“I can buy pen, ink, and paper?” 

“Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can 

T 


274 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


ask them. At present, you may buy your food, and nothing 
more.” 

There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mat- 
tress. As the gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, 
and of the four walls, before going out, a wandering fancy 
wandered through the mind of the prisoner leaning against the 
wall opposite to him, that this gaoler was so unwholesomely 
bloated, both in face and person, as to look like a man who had 
been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was 
gone, he thought in the same wandering way, “Now am I 
left, as if I were dead.” Stopping then, to look down at the 
mattress, he turned from it with a sick feeling, and thought, 
“And here in these crawling creatures is the first condition of 
the body after death.” 

“ Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, 
five paces by four and a half.” The prisoner walked to and 
fro in his cell, counting its measurement, and the roar of the 
city arose like muffled drums with a wild swell of voices added 
to them. “He made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes.” 
The prisoner counted the measurement again, and paced 
faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repeti- 
tion. “The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. 
There was one among them, the appearance of a lady dressed 
in black, who was leaning in the embrasure of a window, and 
she had a light shining upon her golden hair, and she looked 
like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God’s sake, through 
the illuminated villages with the people all awake ! * * * * 
He made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. * * * * 
Five paces by four and a half.” With such scraps tossing 
and rolling upward from the depths of his mind, the prisoner 
walked faster and faster, obstinately counting and counting; 
and the roar of the city changed to this extent — that it still 
rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that 
he knew, in the swell that rose above them. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


275 


CHAPTER II 

THE GRINDSTONE 

Tellson’s Bank, established in the Saint Ger 
ter of Paris, was in a wing of a large house, approached by 
a courtyard and shut off from the street by a high wall and a 
strong gate. The house belonged to a great nobleman who 
had lived in it until he made a flight from the troubles, in his 
own cook’s dress, and got across the borders. A mere beast 
of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his metemp- 
sychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the prepara- 
tion of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied 
three strong men besides the cook in question. 

Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving 
themselves from the sin of having drawn his high wages, by 
being more than ready and willing to cut his throat on the 
altar of the dawning Republic one and indivisible of Liberty, 
Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur’s house had been 
first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all things moved 
so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce precipita- 
tion, that now upon the third night of the autumn month of 
September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession 
of Monseigneur’s house, and had marked it with the tricolour, 
and were drinking brandy in its state apartments. 

A place of business in London like Tellson’s place of busi- 
ness in Paris, would soon have driven the House out of its 
mind and into the Gazette . 0 For, what would staid British 
responsibility and respectability have said to orange-trees in 
boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid over the 
counter? Yet such things were. Tellson’s had white- 
washed the Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, 
in the coolest linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money 
from morning to night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have 
come of this young Pagan, in Lombard-street , 0 London, and 
also of a curtained alcove in the rear of the immortal boy, 



276 


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and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and also of clerks 
not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest provo- 
cation. Yet, a French Tellson’s could get on with these 
things exceedingly well, and, as long as the times held to- 
gether, no man had taken fright at them, and drawn out his 
money. 

What money would be drawn out of Tellson’s henceforth, 
and what would lie there, lost and forgotten ; what plate and 
jewels would tarnish in Tellson’s hiding-places, while the 
depositors rusted in prisons, and when they should have 
violently perished ; how many accounts with Tellson’s never 
to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into the 
next; no man could have said, that night, any more than 
Mr. Jarvis Lorry could, though he thought heavily of these 
questions. He sat by a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted 
and unfruitful year was prematurely cold), and on his honest 
and courageous face there was a deeper shade than the pen- 
dent lamp could throw, or any object in the room distortedly 
reflect — a shade of horror. 

He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House 
of which he had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It 
chanced that they derived a kind of security from the patri- 
otic occupation of the main building, but the true-hearted 
old gentleman never calculated about that. All such cir- 
cumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did his duty. 
On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade, 
was extensive standing for carriages — where, indeed, some 
carriages of Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the 
pillars were fastened two great flaring flambeaux, and in the 
light of these, standing out in the open air, was a large grind- 
stone : a roughly mounted thing which appeared to have 
hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy, 
or other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at 
these harmless objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to 
his seat by the fire. He had opened, not only the glass win- 
dow, but the lattice blind outside it, and he had closed both 
again, and he shivered through his frame. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


277 


From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, 
there came the usual night hum of the city, with now and 
then an indescribable ring in it, weird and unearthly, as if 
some unwonted sounds of a terrible nature were going up to 
Heaven. 

“Thank God,” said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, “that 
no one near and dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. 
May He have mercy on all who are in danger ! ” 

Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and 
he thought, “They have come back!” and sat listening. 
But, there was no loud irruption into the courtyard, as he 
had expected, and he heard the gate clash again, and all was 
quiet. 

The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired 
that vague uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great 
change would naturally awaken, with such feelings roused. 
It was well guarded, and he got up to go among the trusty 
people who were watching it, when his door suddenly opened, 
and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in 
amazement. 

Lucie and her father ! Lucie with her arms stretched out 
to him, and with that old look of earnestness so concentrated 
and intensified, that it seemed as though it had been stamped 
upon her face expressly to give force and power to it in this 
one passage of her life. 

“What is this?” cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. 
“ What is the matter ? Lucie ! Manette ! What has hap- 
pened ? What has brought you here ? What is it ? ” 

With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, 
she panted out in his arms, imploringly, “ 0 my dear friend ! 
My husband ! ” 

“Your husband, Lucie ? ” 

“Charles.” 

“What of Charles?” 

“Here.” 

“Here, in Paris?” 

“Has been here some days — three or four — I don't know 


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how many — I can’t collect my thoughts. An errand of 
generosity brought him here unknown to us ; he was stopped 
at the barrier, and sent to prison.” 

The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the 
same moment, the bell of the great gate rang again, and a 
loud noise of feet and voices came pouring into the courtyard. 

“What is that noise?” said the Doctor, turning towards 
the window. 

“Don’t look!” cried Mr. Lorry. “Don’t look out! Ma- 
nette, for your life, don’t touch the blind ! ” 

The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of 
the window, and said, with a cool, bold smile : 

“My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I 
have been a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris 
— in Paris ? In France — who, knowing me to have been 
a prisoner in the Bastille, would touch me, except to over- 
whelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph. My old 
pain has given me a power that has brought us through the 
barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us 
here. I knew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles 
out of all danger ; I told Lucie so. — What is that noise ? ” 
His hand was again upon the window. 

“Don’t look!” cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. 
“No,. Lucie, my dear, nor you !” He got his arm round her, 
and held her. “Don’t be so terrified, my love. I solemnly 
swear to you that I know of no harm having happened to 
Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in this 
fatal place. What prison is he in ? ” 

“La Force!” 

“ La Force ! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and 
serviceable in your life — and you were always both — you 
will compose yourself now, to do exactly as I bid you; for 
more depends upon it than you can think, or I can say. 
There is no help for you in any action on your part to-night ; 
you cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I 
must bid you to do for Charles’s sake, is the hardest thing to 
do of all. You must instantly be obedient, still, and quiet. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


279 


You must let me put you in a room at the back here. You 
must leave your father and me alone for two minutes, and 
as there are Life and Death in the world you must not delay.” 

“ I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you 
know I can do nothing else than this. I know you are true.” 

The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and 
turned the key ; then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and 
opened the window and partly opened the blind, and put his 
hand upon the Doctor’s arm, and looked out with him into 
the courtyard. 

Looked out upon a throng of men and women : not enough 
in number, or near enough, to fill the courtyard: not more 
than forty or fifty in all. The people in possession of the 
house had let them in at the gate, and they had rushed in to 
work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up there 
for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot. 

But, such awful workers, and such awful work ! 

The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it 
madly were two men, whose faces, as their long hair flapped 
back when the whirlings of the grindstone brought their faces 
up, were more horrible and cruel than the visages of the wild- 
est savages in their most barbarous disguise. False eyebrows 
and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their hide- 
ous countenances' were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry 
with howling, and all staring and glaring with beastly excite- 
ment and want of sleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, 
their matted locks now flung forward over their eyes, now 
flung backward over their necks, some women held wine to 
their mouths that they might drink ; and what with dropping 
blood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the 
stream of sparks struck out of the stone, all their wicked 
atmosphere seemed gore and fire. The eye could not detect 
one creature in the group free from the smear of blood. 
Shouldering one another to get next at the sharpening-stone, 
were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all over their 
limbs and bodies ; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain upon 
those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women’s lace 


280 


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and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through 
and through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all 
brought to be sharpened, were all red with it. Some of the 
hacked swords were tied to the wrists of those who carried 
them, with strips of linen and fragments of dress : ligatures 
various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And as the 
frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the 
stream of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same 
red hue was red in their frenzied eyes ; — eyes which any 
unbrutalised beholder would have given twenty years of life, 
to petrify with a well-directed gun. 

All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning 
man, or of any human creature at any very great pass, could 
see a world if it were there. They drew back from the win- 
dow, and the Doctor looked for explanation in his friend’s 
ashy face. 

“They are,” Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fear- 
fully round at the locked room, “murdering the prisoners. 
If you are sure of what you say ; if you really have the power 
you think you have — as I believe you have — make your- 
self known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It may 
be too late, I don’t know, but let it not be a minute later ! ” 

Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out 
of the room, and was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry re- 
gained the blind. 

His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the 
impetuous confidence of his manner, as he put the weapons 
aside like water, carried him in an instant to the heart of the 
concourse at the stone. For a few moments there was a pause, 
and a hurry, and a murmur, and the unintelligible sound of 
his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him, surrounded by all, 
and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all linked 
shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with 
cries of — “Live the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bas- 
tille prisoner’s kindred in La Force! Room for the Bastille 
prisoner in front there ! Save the prisoner Evremonde at 
La Force !” and a thousand answering shouts. 


A tali: of two cities 


281 


He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed 
the window and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her 
that her father was assisted by the people, and gone in search 
of her husband. He found her child and Miss Pross with her ; 
but, it never occurred to him to be surprised by their appear- 
ance until a long time afterwards, when he sat watching them 
in such quiet as the night knew. 

Lucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at 
his feet, clinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child 
down on his own bed, and her head had gradually fallen on 
the pillow beside her pretty charge. O the long, long night, 
with the moans of the poor wife ! And O the long, long 
night, with no return of her father and no tidings ! 

Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate 
sounded, and the irruption was repeated, and the grindstone 
whirled and spluttered. “What is it?” cried Lucie, af- 
frighted. “Hush! The soldiers’ swords are sharpened 
there,” said Mr. Lorry. “The place is national property 
now, and used as a kind of armoury, my love.” 

Twice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble 
and fitful. Soon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he 
softly detached himself from the clasping hand, and cau- 
tiously looked out again. A man, so besmeared that he 
might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back to 
consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pave- 
ment by the side of the grindstone, and looking about him 
with a vacant air. Shortly, this worn-out murderer descried 
in the imperfect light one of the carriages of Monseigneur, 
and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle, climbed in at the 
door, and shut himself, up to take his rest on its dainty 
cushions. # 

The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry 
looked out again, and the sun was red on the courtyard. 
But, the lesser grindstone stood alone there in the calm morn- 
ing air, with a red upon it that the sun had never given, and 
would never take away. 


282 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


CHAPTER III 

THE SHADOW 

One of the first considerations which arose in the business 
mind of Mr. Lorry when business hours came round, was this : 
— that he had no right to imperil Tellson's by sheltering the 
wife of an emigrant prisoner under the Bank roof. His own 
possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded for Lucie 
and her child, without a moment's demur; but the great 
trust he held was not his own, and as to that business charge 
he was a strict man of business. 

At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of 
finding out the wine-shop again and taking counsel with its 
master in reference to the safest dwelling-place in the dis- 
tracted state of the city. But, the same consideration that 
suggested him, repudiated him ; he lived in the most violent 
Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in its 
dangerous workings. 

Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every 
minute's delay tending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry 
advised with Lucie. She said that her father had spoken of 
hiring a lodging for a short term, in that Quarter, near the 
Banking-house. As there was no business objection to this, 
and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, 
and he were to be released, he could not hope to leave the 
city, Mr. Lorry went out in quest of such a lodging, and found 
a suitable one, high up in a removed by-street where the 
closed blinds in all the other windows % of a high melancholy 
square of buildings marked deserted homes. 

To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, 
and Miss Pross : giving them what comfort he could, and 
much more than he had himself. He left Jerry with them, 
as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear considerable 
knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


283 


A disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, 
and slowly and heavily the day lagged on with him. 

It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank 
closed. He was again alone in his room of the previous 
night, considering what to do next, when he heard a foot 
upon the stair. In a few moments, a man stood in his pres- 
ence, who, with a keenly observant look at him, addressed 
him by his name. 

“Your servant,” said Mr. Lorry. “Do you know me?” 

He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from 
forty-five to fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, 
without any change of emphasis, the words : 

“Do you know me?” 

“I have seen you somewhere.” 

“Perhaps at my wine-shop?” 

Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said : “You come 
from Doctor Manette?” 

“Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.” 

“And what says he? What does he send me?” 

Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. 
It bore the words in the Doctor's writing : 

“Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet. 
I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note 
from Charles to his wife. Let the bearer see his wife.” 

It was dated from La Force, within an hour. 

“Will you accompany me,” said Mr. Lorry, joyfully re- 
lieved after reading this note aloud, “to where his wife re- 
sides ? ” 

“Yes,” returned Defarge. 

Scarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved, and 
mechanical way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and 
they went down into the courtyard. There, they found two 
women; one, knitting. 

“Madame Defarge, surely!” said Mr. Lorry, who had left 
her in exactly the same attitude some seventeen years ago. 


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“It is she,” observed her husband. 

“Does Madame go with us?” inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing 
that she moved as they moved. 

“Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and 
know the persons. It is for their safety.” 

Beginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Lorry 
looked dubiously at him, and led the way. Both the women 
followed ; the second woman being The Vengeance. 

They passed through the intervening streets as quickly as 
they might, ascended the staircase of the new domicile, were 
admitted by Jerry, and found Lucie weeping, alone. She 
was thrown into a transport by the tidings Mr. Lorry gave 
her of her husband, and clasped the hand that delivered his 
note — little thinking what it had been doing near him in the 
night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him. 

“Dearest, — Take courage. I am well, and your father 
has influence around me. You cannot answer this. Kiss our 
child for me.” 

That was all the writing. It was so much, however, to 
her who received it, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, 
and kissed one of the hands that knitted. It was a passion- 
ate, loving, thankful, womanly action, but the hand made no 
response — dropped cold and heavy, and took to its knitting 
again. 

There was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. 
She stopped in the act of putting the note in her bosom, and, 
with her hands yet at her neck, looked terrified at Madame 
Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted eyebrows and fore- 
head with a cold, impassive stare. 

“My dear,” said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; “there 
are frequent risings in the streets ; and, although it is not 
likely they will ever trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to 
see those whom she has the power to protect at such times, 
to the end that she may know them — that she may identify 
them. I believe,” said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his reas- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


285 


suring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed 
itself upon him more and more, “I state the case, Citizen 
Defarge ?” 

Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other 
answer than a gruff sound of acquiescence. 

“You had better, Lucie,’’ said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could 
to propitiate, by tone and manner, “have the dear child here, 
and our good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English 
lady, and knows no French.” 

The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she 
was more than a match for any foreigner, was not to be 
shaken by distress and danger, appeared with folded arms, 
and observed in English to The Vengeance, whom her eyes 
first encountered, “Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope you 
are pretty well ! ” She also bestow r ed a British cough on 
Madame Defarge; but, neither of the two took much heed 
of her. 

“Is that his child?” said Madame Defarge, stopping in 
her work for the first time, and pointing her knitting-needle 
at little Lucie as if it were the finger of Fate. 

“Yes, madame,” answered Mr. Lorry; “this is our poor 
prisoner’s darling daughter, and only child.” 

The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party 
seemed to fall so threatening and dark on the child, that her 
mother instinctively kneeled on the ground beside her, and 
held her to her breast. The shadow attendant on Madame 
Defarge and her party seemed then to fall, threatening and 
dark, on both the mother and the child. 

“It is enough, my husband,” said Madame Defarge. “I 
have seen them. We may go.” 

But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it — 
not visible and presented, but indistinct and withheld — to 
alarm Lucie into saying, as she laid her appealing hand on 
Madame Defarge ’s dress : 

“You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him 
no harm. You will help me to see him if you can ? ” 

“ Your husband is not my business here,” returned Madame 


286 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Defarge, looking down at her with perfect composure. “It 
is the daughter of your father who is my business here.” 

“For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my 
child’s sake ! She will put her hands together and pray you 
to be merciful. We are more afraid of you than of these 
others.” 

Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked 
at her husband. Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his 
thumb-nail and looking at her, collected his face into a sterner 
expression. 

“What is it that your husband says in that little letter?” 
asked Madame Defarge, with a lowering smile. “Influence; 
he says something touching influence?” 

“That my father,” said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper 
from her breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner 
and not on it, “has much influence around him.” 

“ Surely it will release him ! ” said Madame Defarge. “ Let 
it do so.” 

“As a wife and mother,” cried Lucie, most earnestly, “I 
implore you to have pity on me and not to exercise any power 
that you possess, against my innocent husband, but to use 
it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think of me. As a wife 
and mother !” 

Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, 
and said, turning to her friend The Vengeance : 

“The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since 
we were as little as this child, and much less, have not been 
greatly considered? We have known their husbands and 
fathers laid in prison and kept from them, often enough? 
All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in them- 
selves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, 
thirst, sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?” 

“We have seen nothing else,” returned The Vengeance. 

“We have borne this a long time,” said Madame Defarge, 
turning her eyes again upon Lucie. “Judge you! Is it 
likely that the trouble of one wife and mother would be much 
to us now?” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


287 


She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance 
followed. Defarge went last, and closed the door. 

“Courage, my dear Lucie/’ said Mr. Lorry, as he raised 
her. “Courage, courage! So far all goes well with us — 
much, much better than it has of late gone with many poor 
souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.” 

“I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman 
seems to throw a shadow on me and on all my hopes.” 

“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Lorry; “what is this despondency 
in the brave little breast ? A shadow indeed ! No substance 
in it, Lucie.” 

But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark 
upon himself, for all that, and in his secret mind it troubled 
him greatly. 


CHAPTER IV 

CALM IN STORM 

Doctor- Manette did not return until the morning of the 
fourth day of his absence. So much of what had happened 
in that dreadful time as could be kept from the knowledge 
of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that not until long 
afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she know 
that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and 
all ages had been killed by the populace ; that four days and 
nights had been darkened by this deed of horror ; and that 
the air around her had been tainted by the slain. She only 
knew that there had been an attack upon the prisons, that 
all political prisoners had been in danger, and that some had 
been dragged out by the crowd and murdered. 

To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunc- 
tion of secrecy on which he had no need to dwell, that the 
crowd had taken him through a scene of carnage to the prison 
of La Force. That, in the prison he had found a self-ap- 
pointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were 


288 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be 
put forth to be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) 
to be sent back to their cells. That, presented by his con- 
ductors to this Tribunal, he had announced himself by name 
and profession as having been for eighteen years a secret and 
unaccused prisoner in the Bastille ; that, one of the body so 
sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that 
this man was Defarge. 

That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers 
on the table, that his son-in-law was among the living pris- 
oners, and had pleaded hard to the Tribunal — of whom some 
members were asleep and some awake, some dirty with mur- 
der and some clean, some sober and some not — for his life 
and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on 
himself as a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it 
had been accorded to him to have Charles Darnay brought 
before the lawless Court, and examined. That, he seemed 
on the point of being at once released, when the tide in his 
favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible to 
the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. 
That, the man sitting as President had then informed Doctor 
Manette that the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, 
for his sake, be held inviolate in safe custody. That, imme- 
diately, on a signal, the prisoner was removed to the interior 
of the prison again; but, that he, the Doctor, had then so 
strongly pleaded for permission to remain and assure himself 
that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance, de- 
livered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the 
gate had often drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained 
the permission, and had remained in that Hall of Blood until 
the danger was over. 

The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food 
and sleep by intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy 
over the prisoners who were saved, had astounded him 
scarcely less than the mad ferocity against those who were 
cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had been 
discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


289 


savage had thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought 
to go to him and dress the wound, the Doctor had passed out 
at the same gate, and had found him in the arms of a com- 
pany of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies of their 
victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything 
in this awful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and 
tended the wounded man with the gentlest solicitude — had 
made a litter for him and escorted him carefully from the spot 
— had then caught up their weapons and plunged anew into 
a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes 
with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it. 

As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched 
the face of his friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving 
arose within him that such dread experiences would revive 
the old danger. But, he had never seen his friend in his pres- 
ent aspect : he had never at all known him in his present 
character. For the first time the Doctor felt, now, that his 
suffering was strength and power. For the first time he felt 
that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which 
could break the prison door of his ; daughter’s husband, and 
deliver him. “It all tended to a good end, my friend; it 
was not mere waste and ruin. As my beloved child was 
helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be helpful now in 
restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid of 
Heaven I will do it!” Thus, Doctor Manette. And when 
Jarvis Lorry saw the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm 
strong look and bearing of the man whose life always seemed 
to him to have been stopped, like a clock, for so many years, 
and then set going again with an energy which had lain dor- 
mant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed. 

Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to con- 
tend with, would have yielded before his persevering purpose. 
While he kept himself in his place, as a physician, whose busi- 
ness was with all degrees of mankind, bond and free, rich and 
poor, bad and good, he used his personal influence so wisely, 
that he was soon the inspecting physician of three prisons, 
and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie 


u 


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that her husband was no longer confined alone, but was 
mixed with the general body of prisoners; he saw her hus- 
band weekly, and brought sweet messages to her, straight 
from his lips; sometimes her husband himself sent a letter 
to her (though never by the Doctor’s hand), but she was not 
permitted to write to him : for, among the many wild sus- 
picions of plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at 
emigrants who were known to have made friends or perma- 
nent connections abroad. 

This new life of the Doctor’s was an anxious life, no doubt ; 
still, the sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sus- 
taining pride in it. Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; 
it was a natural and worthy one; but he observed it as a 
curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that time, his im- 
prisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter 
and his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and 
weakness. Now that this was changed, and he knew himself 
to be invested through that old trial with forces to which they 
both looked for Charles’s ultimate safety and deliverance, he 
became so far exalted by the change, that he took the lead 
and direction, and required them as the weak, to trust to 
him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of him- 
self and Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest grati- 
tude and affection could reverse them, for he could have had 
no pride but in rendering some service to her who had ren- 
dered so much to him. “All curious to see,” thought Mr. 
Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, “but all natural and right; 
so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it couldn’t 
be in better hands.” 

But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased try- 
ing, to get Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get 
him brought to trial, the public current of the time set too 
strong and fast for him. The new era began; the king was 
tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of Liberty, 
Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death 
against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and 
day from the great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred 


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291 


thousand men, summoned to rise against the tyrants of the 
earth, rose from all the varying soils of France, as if the 
dragon’s teeth had been sown broadcast, and had yielded 
fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and alluvial 
mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds 
of the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive- 
grounds and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the 
corn, along the fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the 
sand of the seashore. What private solicitude could rear 
itself against the deluge of the Year One of Liberty — the 
deluge rising from below, not falling from above, and with 
the windows of Heaven shut, not opened ! 

There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of re- 
lenting rest, no measurement of time. Though days and 
nights circled as regularly as when time was young, and the 
evening and morning were the first day, other count of time 
there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever of a 
nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking 
the unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed 
the people the head of the king — and now, it seemed almost 
in the same breath, the head of his fair wife which had had 
eight weary months of imprisoned widowhood and misery, 
to turn it grey. 

And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which 
obtains in all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by 
so fast. A revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty 
or fifty thousand revolutionary committees all over the land ; 
a law of the Suspected, which struck away all security for 
liberty or life, and delivered over any good and innocent 
person to any bad and guilty one ; prisons gorged with people 
who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing ; 
these things became the established order and nature of ap- 
pointed things, and seemed to be ancient usage before they 
were many weeks old. Above all, one hideous figure grew 
as familiar as if it had been before the general gaze from the 
foundations of the world — the figure of the sharp female 
called La Guillotine. 


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It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for 
headache, it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, 
it imparted a peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the 
National Razor which shaved close : who kissed La Guillo- 
tine, looked through the little window and sneezed into the 
sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of. the human race. 
It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts 
from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down 
to and believed in where the Cross was denied. 

It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it 
most polluted, were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, 
like a toy-puzzle for a young Devil, and was put together 
again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed the eloquent, 
struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and good. 
Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living 
and one dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, 
in as many minutes. The name of the strong man of Old 
Scripture had descended to the chief functionary who worked 
it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his namesake, and 
blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every 
day. 

Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, 
the Doctor walked with a steady head : confident in his 
power, cautiously persistent in his end, never doubting that 
he would save Lucie’s husband at last. Yet the current of 
the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time 
away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and 
three months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. 
So much more wicked and distracted had the Revolution 
grown in that December month, that the rivers of the South 
were encumbered with the bodies of the violently drowned 
by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares under 
the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among 
the terrors with a steady head. No man better known than 
he, in Paris at that day ; no man in a stranger situation. Si- 
lent, humane, indispensable in hospital and prison, using his 
art equally among assassins and victims, he was a man apart. 


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293 


In the exercise of his skill, the appearance and the story of 
the Bastille Captive removed him from all other men. He 
was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if 
he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years be- 
fore, or were a Spirit moving among mortals. 


CHAPTER V 

THE WOOD-SAWYER 

One year and three months. During all that time Lucie 
was never sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine 
would strike off her husband’s head next day. Every day, 
through the stony streets, the tumbrils now jolted heavily, 
filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright women, brown- 
haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and 
old ; gentle born and peasant born ; all red wine for La Guil- 
lotine, all daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the 
loathsome prisons, and carried to her through the streets to 
slake her devouring thirst. Liberty, equality, fraternity, or 
death ; — the last, much the easiest to bestow, 0 Guillotine ! 

If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels 
of the time, had stunned the Doctor’s daughter into awaiting 
the result in idle despair, it would but have been with her as 
it was with many. But, from the hour when she had taken 
the white head to her fresh young bosom in the garret of Saint 
Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was truest to 
them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good 
will always be. 

As soon as they were established in their new residence, 
and her father had entered on the routine of his avocations, 
she arranged the little household as exactly as if her husband 
had been there. Everything had its appointed place and its 
appointed time. Little Lucie she taught, as regularly, as if 
they had all been united in their English home. The slight 


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devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a be- 
lief that they would soon be reunited — the little prepara- 
tions for his speedy return, the setting aside of his chair and 
his books — these, and the solemn prayer at night for one 
dear prisoner especially, among the many unhappy souls in 
prison and the shadow of death — were almost the only out- 
spoken reliefs of her heavy mind. 

She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark 
dresses, akin to mourning dresses, which she and her child 
wore, were as neat and as well attended to as the brighter 
clothes of happy days. She lost her colour, and the old and 
intent expression was a constant, not an occasional, thing; 
otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Some- 
times, at night on kissing her father, she would burst into 
the grief she had repressed all day, and would say that her 
sole reliance, under Heaven, was on him. He always reso- 
lutely answered: “Nothing can happen to him without my 
knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie. ,, 

They had not made the round of their changed life many 
weeks, when her father said to her, on coming home one even- 
ing : 

“ My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which 
Charles can sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. 
When he can get to it — which depends on many uncertain- 
ties and incidents — he might see you in the street, he thinks, 
if you stood in a certain place that I can show you. But you 
will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even if you 
could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recogni- 
tion.” 

“ 0 show me the place, my father, and I will go there every 
day.” 

From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. 
As the clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned 
resignedly away. When it was not too wet or inclement for 
her child to be with her, they went together ; at other times 
she was alone ; but, she never missed a single day. 

It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. 


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295 


The hovel of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was 
the only house at that end ; all else was wall. On the third 
day of her being there, he noticed her. 

“Good day, citizeness.” 

“Good day, citizen .’ 7 

This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It 
had been established voluntarily some time ago, among the 
more thorough patriots ; but, was now law for everybody. 

“Walking here again, citizeness?” 

“You see me, citizen !” 

The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy 
of gesture (he had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance 
at the prison, pointed at the prison, and putting his ten fingers 
before his face to represent bars, peeped through them jo- 
cosely. 

“But it’s not my business,” said he. And went on sawing 
his wood. 

Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the 
moment she appeared. 

“ What ? Walking here again, citizeness ? ” 

“Yes, citizen.” 

“Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little 
citizeness ? ” 

“Do I say yes, mamma?” whispered little Lucie, drawing 
close to her. 

“Yes, dearest.” 

“Yes, citizen.” 

“Ah! But it’s not my business. My work is my busi- 
ness. See my saw ! I call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, 
la ; La, la, la ! And off his head Comes ! ” 

The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket. 

“ I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See 
here again ! Loo, loo, loo ; Loo, loo, loo ! And off her head 
comes! Now, a child. Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And 
off its head comes. All the family ! ” 

Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his 
basket, but it was impossible to be there while the wood- 


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sawyer was at work, and not be in his sight. Thenceforth, 
to secure his good will, she always spoke to him first, and 
often gave him drink-money, which he readily received. 

He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had 
quite forgotten him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, 
and in lifting her heart up to her husband, she would come to 
herself to find him looking at her, with his knee on his bench 
and his saw stopped in its work. “But it's not my business ! ” 
he would generally say at those times, and would briskly fall 
to his sawing again. 

In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter 
winds of spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of 
autumn, and again in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie 
passed two hours of every day at this place ; and every day 
on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall. Her husband saw 
her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in five 
or six times : it might be twice or thrice running : it might 
be, not for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough 
that he could and did see her when the chances served, and 
on that possibility she would have waited out the day, seven 
days a week. 

These occupations brought her round to the December 
month, wherein her father walked among the terrors with a 
steady head. On a lightly-snowing afternoon she arrived at 
the usual corner. It was a day of some wild rejoicing, and 
a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along, 
decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck 
upon them; also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the 
standard inscription (tri coloured letters were the favourite), 
Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality, Frater- 
nity, or Death ! 

The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that 
its whole surface furnished very indifferent space for this 
legend. He had got somebody to scrawl it up for him, how- 
ever, who had squeezed Death in with most inappropriate 
difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike and cap, as 
a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


297 


saw inscribed as his “ Little Sainte Guillotine ” — for the 
great sharp female was by that time popularly canonised. 
His shop was shut and he was not there, which was a relief 
to Lucie, and left her quite alone. 

But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled 
movement and a shouting coming along, which filled her with 
fear. A moment afterwards, and a throng of people came 
pouring round the corner by the prison wall, in the midst of 
whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with The Ven- 
geance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, 
and they were dancing like five thousand demons. There 
was no other music than their own singing. They danced to 
the popular Revolution song, keeping a ferocious time that 
was like a gnashing of teeth in unison. Men and women 
danced together, women danced together, men danced to- 
gether, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they 
were a mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags ; 
but, as they filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lu- 
cie, some ghastly apparition of a dance-figure gone raving 
mad arose among them. They advanced, retreated, struck 
at one another’s hands, clutched at one another’s heads, spun 
round alone, caught one another and spun round in pairs, 
until many of them dropped. While those were down, the 
rest linked hand in hand, and all spun round together : then 
the ring broke, and in separate rings of two and four they 
turned and turned until they all stopped at once, began again, 
struck, clutched, and tore, and then reversed the spin, and all 
spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped again, 
paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the 
width of the public way, and, with their heads low down and 
their hands high up, swooped screaming off. No -fight could 
have been half so terrible as this dance. It was so emphati- 
cally a fallen sport — a something, once innocent, delivered 
over to all devilry — a healthy pastime changed into a means 
of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling 
the heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, 
showing how warped and perverted all things good by nature 


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were become. The maidenly bosom bared to this, the pretty 
almost-child’s head thus distracted, the delicate foot mincing 
in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of the disjointed 
time. 

This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie 
frightened and bewildered in the doorway of the wood-saw- 
yer’s house, the feathery snow fell as quietly and lay as white 
and soft, as if it had never been. 

“ 0 my father ! ” for he stood before her when she lifted up 
the eyes she had momentarily darkened with her hand ; “ such 
a cruel, bad sight.” 

“I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many 
times. Don’t be frightened ! Not one of them would harm 
you.” 

“I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I 
think of my husband, and the mercies of these people ” 

“We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him 
climbing to the window, and I came to tell you. There is no 
one here to see. You may kiss your hand towards that high- 
est shelving roof.” 

“I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it !” 

“You cannot see him, my poor dear?” 

“No, father,” said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she 
kissed her hand, “no.” 

A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “ I salute you, 
citizeness,” from the Doctor. “I salute you, citizen.” This 
in passing. Nothing more. Madame Defarge gone, like a 
shadow over the white road. 

“ Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air 
of cheerfulness and courage, for his sake. That was well 
done;” they had left the spot; “it shall not be in vain. 
Charles is summoned for to-morrow.” 

“For to-morrow !” 

“There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there 
are precautions to be taken, that could not be taken until he 
was actually summoned before the Tribunal. He has not 
received the notice yet, but I know that he will presently be 


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299 


summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the Conciergerie 0 ; 
I have timely information. You are not afraid ?” 

She could scarcely answer, “I trust in you.” 

“Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my 
darling; he shall be restored to you within a few hours; I 
have encompassed him with every protection. I must see 
Lorry.” 

He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels 
within hearing. They both knew too well what it meant. 
One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring away with their 
dread loads over the hushing snow. 

“I must see Lorry,” the Doctor repeated, turning her 
another way. 

The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust ; had never 
left it. He and his books were in frequent requisition as to 
property confiscated and made national. What he could 
save for the owners, he saved. No better man living to hold 
fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to hold his peace. 

A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the 
Seine, denoted the approach of darkness. It was almost 
dark when they arrived at the Bank. The stately residence 
of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and deserted. Above 
a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters: Na- 
tional Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, 
Rquality, Fraternity, or Death ! 

Who could that be with Mr. Lorry — the owner of the 
riding-coat upon the chair — who must not be seen? From 
whom newly arrived, did he come out, agitated and sur- 
prised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did he 
appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice 
and turning his head towards the door of the room from 
which he had issued, he said : “Removed to the Conciergerie, 
and summoned for to-morrow ? ” 


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CHAPTER VI 

TRIUMPH 

The dread Tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and 
determined Jury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every 
evening, and were read out by the gaolers of the various 
prisons to their prisoners. The standard gaoler-joke was, 
“Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you inside 
there!” 

“ Charles Evremonde, called Darnay ! ” 

So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force. 

When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a 
spot reserved for those who were announced as being thus 
fatally recorded. Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, had 
reason to know the usage ; he had seen hundreds pass away 
so. 

His bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, 
glanced over them to assure himself that he had taken his 
place, and went through the list, making a similar short 
pause at each name. There were twenty-three names, but 
only twenty were responded to ; for one of the prisoners so 
summoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had 
already been guillotined and forgotten. The list was read, 
in the vaulted chamber where Darnay had seen the associated 
prisoners on the night of his arrival. Every one of those had 
perished in the massacre ; every human creature he had since 
cared for and parted with, had died on the scaffold. 

There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the 
parting was soon over. It was the incident of every day, 
and the society of La Force were engaged in the preparation 
of some games of forfeits and a little concert, for that even- 
ing. They crowded to the grates and shed tears there ; but, 
twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be 
refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, 
when the common rooms and corridors would be delivered 


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301 


over to the great dogs who kept watch there through 
the night. The prisoners were far from insensible or unfeel- 
ing ; their ways arose out of the condition of the time. Simi- 
larly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour or 
intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons 
to brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was 
not mere boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly 
shaken public mind. In seasons of pestilence, some of us 
will have a secret attraction to the disease — a terrible pass- 
ing inclination to die of it. And all of us have like wonders 
hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke 
them. 

The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the 
night in its vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next 
day, fifteen prisoners were put to the bar before Charles . 
Darnay’s name was called. All the fifteen were condemned, 
and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half. 

“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,” was at length ar- 
raigned. 

His judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the 
rough red cap and tricoloured cockade was the head-dress 
otherwise prevailing. Looking at the Jury and the turbu- 
lent audience, he might have thought that the usual order 
of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the 
honest men. The lowest, crudest, and worst populace of a 
city, never without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were 
the directing spirits of the scene : noisily commenting, ap- 
plauding, disapproving, anticipating, and precipitating the 
result, without a check. Of the men, the greater part were 
armed in various ways; of the women, some wore knives, 
some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many 
knitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of 
knitting under her arm as she worked. She was in a front 
row, by the side of a man whom he had never seen since his 
arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly remembered as 
Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in his 
ear, and that she seemed to be his wife ; but, what he most 


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noticed in the two figures was, that although they were posted 
as close to himself as they could be, they never looked towards 
him. They seemed to be waiting for something with a dogged 
determination, and they looked at the Jury, but at nothing 
else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette, in his usual 
quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr. 
Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tri- 
bunal, who wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed 
the coarse garb of the Carmagnole. 

Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the 
public prosecutor as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to 
the Republic, under the decree which banished all emigrants 
on pain of Death. It was nothing that the decree bore date 
since his return to France. There he was, and there was the 
decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was de- 
manded. 

“Take off his head !” cried the audience. “An enemy to 
the Republic ! ” 

The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and 
asked the prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived 
many years in England ? 

Undoubtedly it was. 

Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself? 

Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of 
the law. 

Why not ? the President desired to know. 

Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was 
distasteful to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, 
and had left his country — he submitted before the word 
emigrant in the present acceptation by the Tribunal was in 
use — to live by his own industry in England, rather than 
on the industry of the overladen people of France. 

What proof had he of this ? 

He handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Ga- 
belle, and Alexandre Manette. 

But he had married in England? the President reminded 
him. 


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303 


True, but not an English woman. 

A citizeness of France? 

Yes. By birth. 

Her name and family ? 

“Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the 
good physician who sits there.” 

This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries 
in exaltation of the well-known good physician rent the hall. 
So capriciously were the people moved, that tears immedi- 
ately rolled down several ferocious countenances which had 
been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as if with im- 
patience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him. 

On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay 
had set his foot according to Doctor Manette ’s reiterated 
instructions. The same cautious counsel directed every step 
that lay before him, and had prepared every inch of his road. 

The President asked, why had he returned to France when 
he did, and not sooner ? 

He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he 
had no means of living in France, save those he had resigned ; 
whereas, in England, he lived by giving instruction in the 
French language and literature. He had returned when he 
did, on the pressing and written entreaty of a French citizen, 
who represented that his life was endangered by his absence. 
He had come back, to save a citizen’s life, and to bear his 
testimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was 
that criminal in the eyes of the Republic ? 

The populace cried enthusiastically, “No !” and the Presi- 
dent rang his bell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they 
continued to cry “No !” until they left off, of their own will. 

The President required the name of that citizen ? The ac- 
cused explained that the citizen was his first witness. He 
also referred with confidence to the citizen’s letter, which 
had been taken from him at the Barrier, but which he did 
not doubt would be found among the papers then before the 
President. 

The Doctor had taken care that it should be there — had 


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assured him that it would be there — and at this stage of the 
proceedings it was produced and read. Citizen Gabelle was 
called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen Gabelle hinted, with 
infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the pressure of busi- 
ness imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of enemies of 
the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly 
overlooked in his prison of the Abbaye — in fact, had rather 
passed out of the Tribunal's patriotic remembrance — until 
three days ago ; when he had been summoned before it, and 
had been set at liberty on the Jury's declaring themselves 
satisfied that the accusation against him was answered, as to 
himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evremonde, called 
Darnay. 

Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal 
popularity, and the clearness of his answers, made a great 
impression ; but, as he proceeded, as he showed that the Ac- 
cused was his first friend on his release from his long impris- 
onment ; that, the accused had remained in England, always 
faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in their 
exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat 
government there, he had actually been tried for his life by 
it, as the foe of England and friend of the United States — 
as he brought these circumstances into view, with the great- 
est discretion and with the straightforward force of truth 
and earnestness, the Jury and the populace became one. 
At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur Lorry, an 
English gentleman then and there present, who, like him- 
self, had been a witness on that English trial and could 
corroborate his account of it, the Jury declared that they 
had heard enough, and that they were ready with their votes 
if the President were content to receive them. 

At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), 
the populace set up a shout of applause. All the voices were 
in the prisoner's favour, and the President declared him free. 

Then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which 
the populace sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their 
better impulses towards generosity and mercy, or which they 


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305 


regarded as some set-off against their swollen account of 
cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of these mo- 
tives such extraordinary scenes were referable ; it is probable, 
to a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. 
No sooner was the acquittal pronounced, than tears were 
shed as freely as blood at another time, and such fraternal 
embraces were bestowed upon the prisoner by as many of 
both sexes as could rush at him, that after his long and un- 
wholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from 
exhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that 
the very same people, carried by another current, would have 
rushed at him with the very same intensity, to rend him to 
pieces and strew him over the streets. 

His removal, to make way for other accused persons who 
were to be tried, rescued him from these caresses for the mo- 
ment. Five were to be tried together, next, as enemies of 
the Republic, forasmuch as they had not assisted it by word 
or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate itself 
and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down 
to him before he left the place, condemned to die within 
twenty-four hours. The first of them told him so, with the 
customary prison sign of Death — a raised finger — and 
they all added in words, “Long live the Republic!” 

The five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their 
proceedings, for when he and Doctor Manette emerged from 
the gate, there was a great crowd about it, in which there 
seemed to be every face he had seen in Court — except two, 
for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the con- 
course made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, 
all by turns and all together, until the very tide of the river 
on the bank of which the mad scene was acted, seemed to 
run mad, like the people on the shore. 

They put him into a great chair they had among them, and 
which they had taken either out of the Court itself, or one of 
its rooms or passages. Over the chair they had thrown a 
red flag, and to the back of it they had bound a pike with a 
red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not even the Doc- 
x 


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tor’s entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home 
on men’s shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving 
about him, and casting up to sight from the stormy deep such 
wrecks of faces, that he more than once misdoubted his mind 
being in confusion, and that he was in the tumbril on his way 
to the Guillotine. 

In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met 
and pointing him out, they carried him on. Reddening the 
snowy streets with the prevailing Republican colour, in wind- 
ing and tramping through them, as they had reddened them 
below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried him thus into 
the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father 
had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband 
stood upon his feet, she dropped insensible in his arms. 

As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head 
between his face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears 
and her lips might come together unseen, a few of the people 
fell to dancing. Instantly, all the rest fell to dancing, and 
the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole. Then, they 
elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the crowd 
to be carried as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling 
and overflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the 
river’s bank, and over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed 
them every one and whirled them away. 

After grasping the Doctor’s hand, as he stood victorious 
and proud before him ; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, 
who came panting in breathless from his struggle against the 
waterspout of the Carmagnole ; after kissing little Lucie, who 
was lifted up to clasp her arms round his neck; and after 
embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who lifted her; 
he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their rooms. 

“Lucie! My own! I am safe.” 

“ O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees 
as I have prayed to Him.” 

They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When 
she was again in his arms, he said to her : 

“And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man 


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307 


in all this France could have done what he has done 
for me.” 

She laid her head upon her father’s breast, as she had laid 
his poor head on her own breast, long, long ago. He was 
happy in the return he had made her, he was recompensed 
for his suffering, he was proud of his strength. “You must 
not be weak, my darling,” he remonstrated; “don’t tremble 
so. I have saved him.” 


CHAPTER VII 

A KNOCK AT THE DOOR 

“I have saved him.” It was not another of the dreams in 
which he had often come back ; he was really here. And yet 
his wife trembled, and a vague but heavy fear was upon her. 

All the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so 
passionately revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so con- 
stantly put to death on vague suspicion and black malice, it 
was so impossible to forget that many as blameless as her 
husband and as dear to others as he was to her, every day 
shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her 
heart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought 
to be. The shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning 
to fall, and even now the dreadful carts were rolling through 
the streets. Her mind pursued them, looking for him among 
the Condemned; and then she clung closer to his real pres- 
ence and trembled more. 

Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate supe- 
riority to this woman’s weakness, which was wonderful to 
see. No garret, no shoemaking, no One Hundred and Five, 
North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task he had 
set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. 
Let them all lean upon him. 

Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only 


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because that was the safest way of life, involving the least 
offence to the people, but because they were not rich, and 
Charles, throughout his imprisonment, had had to pay heavily 
for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards the living of 
the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and partly to 
avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant ; the citizen and 
citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, ren- 
dered them occasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly 
transferred to them by Mr. Lorry) had become their daily 
retainer, and had his bed there every night. 

It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible 
of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door 
or doorpost of every house, the name of every inmate must 
be legibly inscribed in letters of a certain size, at a certain 
convenient height from the ground. Mr. Jerry Cruncher’s 
name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down below ; 
and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that 
name himself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom 
Doctor Manette had employed to add to the list the name of 
Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. 

In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, 
all the usual harmless ways of life were changed. In the 
Doctor’s little household, as in very many others, the articles 
of daily consumption that were wanted were purchased every 
evening, in small quantities and at various small shops. To 
avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as pos- 
sible for talk and envy, was the general desire. 

For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had 
discharged the office of purveyors ; the former carrying the 
money; the latter, the basket. Every afternoon at about 
the time when the public lamps were lighted, they fared forth 
on this duty, and made and brought home such purchases as 
were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long asso- 
ciation with a French family, might have known as much of 
their language as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had 
no mind in that direction; consequently she knew no more 
of that “ nonsense ” (as she was pleased to call it) than Mr. 


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303 


Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing was to plump a 
noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any 
introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened 
not to be the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for 
that thing, lay hold of it, and hold on by it until the bargain 
was concluded. She always made a bargain for it, by hold- 
ing up, as a statement of its just price, one finger less than 
the merchant held up, whatever his number might be. 

“Now, Mr. Cruncher, ” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red 
with felicity; “if you are ready, I am.” 

Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. 
He had worn all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file 
his spiky head down. 

“There's all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, 
“and we shall have a precious time of it. We want wine, 
among the rest. Nice toasts these Redheads will be drink- 
ing, wherever we buy it.” 

“ It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should 
think,” retorted Jerry, “whether they drink your health or 
the Old Un's.” 

“Who's he?” said Miss Pross. 

Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as 
meaning “Old Nick's.” 

“Ha !” said Miss Pross, “it doesn't need an interpreter to 
explain the meaning of these creatures. They have but one, 
and it's Midnight Murder, and Mischief.” 

“Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious ! ” cried Lucie. 

“Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious,” said Miss Pross; “but I 
may say among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no 
oniony and tobaccoey smotherings in the form of embrac- 
ings all round, going on in the streets. Now, Ladybird, never 
you stir from that fire till I come back ! Take care of the 
dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your pretty 
head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me 
again! May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before 
I go?” 

“ I think you may take that liberty,” the Doctor answered, 
smiling. 


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“For gracious sake, don’t talk about Liberty; we have 
quite enough of that,” said Miss Pross. 

“Hush, dear! Again?” Lucie remonstrated. 

“Well, my sweet,” said Miss Pross, nodding her head em- 
phatically, “the short and the long of it is, that I am a sub- 
ject of His Most Gracious Majesty King George the Third;” 
Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; “and as such, my maxim 
is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks, 
On him our hopes we fix, God save the King !°” 

Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated 
the words after Miss Pross, like somebody at church. 

“I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, 
though I wish you had never taken that cold in your voice,” 
said Miss Pross, approvingly. “But the question, Doctor 
Manette. Is there” — it was the good creature’s way to 
affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety with 
them all, and to come at it in this chance manner — “is there 
any prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?” 

“I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.” 

“ Heigh-ho-hum ! ” said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing 
a sigh as she glanced at her darling’s golden hair in the light 
of the fire, “then we must have patience and wait : that’s all. 
We mfist hold up our heads and fight low, as my brother 
Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher ! — Don’t you 
move, Ladybird !” 

They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, 
and the child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back 
presently from the Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted 
the lamp, but had put it aside in a corner, that they might 
enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie sat by her 
grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm : and 
he, in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell 
her a story of a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a 
prison-wall and let out a captive who had once done the Fairy 
a service. All was subdued and quiet, and Lucie was more 
at ease than she had been. 

“ What is that ? ” she cried, all at once. 


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311 


“ My dear ! " said her father, stopping in his story, and 
laying his hand on hers, “command yourself. - What a dis- 
ordered state you are in ! The least thing — nothing — 
startles you ! You, your father's daughter !" 

“I thought, my father," said Lucie, excusing herself, with 
a pale face and in a faltering voice, “that I heard strange 
feet upon the stairs." 

“My love, the staircase is as still as Death." 

As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door. 

“ Oh father, father. What can this be ! Hide Charles. 
Save him ! " 

“My child," said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand 
upon her shoulder, “I have saved him. What weakness is 
this, my dear ! Let me go to the door." 

He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening 
outer rooms, and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over 
the floor, and four rough men in red caps, armed with sabres 
and pistols, entered the room. 

“The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay," said the first. 

“ Who seeks him ? " answered Darnay. 

“I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; 
I saw you before the Tribunal to-day. You are again the 
prisoner of the Republic." 

The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and 
child clinging to him. 

“Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?" 

“It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, 
and will know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-mor- 
row." 

Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into 
stone, that he stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were 
a statue made to hold it, moved after these words were spoken, 
put the lamp down, and confronting the speaker, and taking 
him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red woollen shirt, 
said : 

“You know him, you have said. Do you know me?” 

“Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor." 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“We all know yqu, Citizen Doctor,” said the other three. 

He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a 
lower voice, after a pause : 

“Will you answer his question to me then? How does 
this happen?” 

“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been 
denounced to the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,” 
pointing out the second who had entered, “is from Saint 
Antoine.” 

The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added : 

“He is accused by Saint Antoine.” 

“ Of what ? ” asked the Doctor. 

“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, 
“ask no more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, 
without doubt you as a good patriot will be happy to make 
them. The Republic goes before all. The People is su- 
preme. Evremonde, we are pressed.” 

“One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell me 
who denounced him?” 

“It is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask 
Him of Saint Antoine here.” 

The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved 
uneasily on his feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length 
said : 

“Well ! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced — 
and gravely — by the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And 
by one other.” 

“What other?” 

“Do you ask, Citizen Doctor?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you 
will be answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb !” 


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313 


CHAPTER VIII 

A HAND AT CARDS 


A 


'w' * 


Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss 
Pross threaded her way along the narrow streets and crossed 
the river by the bridge of the Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her 
mind the number of indispensable purchases she had to make. 
Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They 
both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops 
they passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of 
people, and turned out of their road to avoid any very ex- 
cited group of talkers. It was a raw evening, and the misty 
river, blurred to the eye with blazing lights and to the ear 
with harsh noises, showed where the barges were stationed 
in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of 
the Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with that 
Army, or got undeserved promotion in it ! Better for him 
that his beard had never grown, for the National Razor 
shaved him close. 

Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a 
measure of oil for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of 
the wine they wanted. After peeping into several wine-shops, 
she stopped at the sign of The Good Republican Brutus of 
Antiquity, not far from the National Palace, once (and twice) 
the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather took her fancy. 
It had a quieter look than any other place of the same de- 
scription they had passed, and, though red with patriotic 
caps, was not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, 
and finding him of her opinion. Miss Pross resorted to The 
Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, attended by her cava- 
lier. 

Slightly observant of the smoky lights ; of the people, pipe 
in mouth, playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of 
the one bare-breasted, bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman 
reading a journal aloud, and of the others listening to him,- 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be resumed ; of the two 
or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the popular 
high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that atti- 
tude, like slumbering bears or dogs ; the two outlandish cus- 
tomers approached the counter, and showed what they 
wanted. 

As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from an- 
other man in a corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had 
to face Miss Pross. No sooner did he face her, than Miss 
Pross uttered a scream, and clapped her hands. 

In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That 
somebody was assassinated by somebody vindicating a differ- 
ence of opinion was the likeliest occurrence. Everybody 
looked to see somebody fall, but only saw a man and a 
woman standing staring at each other ; the man with all the 
outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; 
the woman, evidently English. 

What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the 
disciples of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, ex- 
cept that it was something very voluble and loud, would have 
been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss Pross and her 
protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no 
ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, 
that not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, 
but, Mr. Cruncher — though it seemed on his own separate and 
individual account — was in a state of the greatest wonder. 

“ What is the matter ? ” said the man who had caused Miss 
Pross to scream ; speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though 
in a low tone), and in English. 

“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon !” cried Miss Pross, clapping 
her hands again. “After not setting eyes upon you or hear- 
ing of you for so long a time, do I find you here ! ” 

“Don’t call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death 
of me?” asked the man, in a furtive, frightened way. 

“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. 
“Have I ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a 
cruel question?” 


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315 


“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and 
come out, if you want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, 
and come out. Who’s this man?” 

Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by 
no means affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. 
Cruncher.” 

“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think 
me a ghost ?” 

Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. 
He said not a word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the 
depths of her reticule through her tears with great difficulty 
paid for her wine. As she did so, Solomon turned to the fol- 
lowers of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, and 
offered a few words of explanation in the French language, 
which caused them all to relapse into their former places and 
pursuits. 

“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, 
“what do you want?” 

“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever 
turned my love away from ! ” cried Miss Pross, “ to give me 
such a greeting, and show me no affection.” 

“There. Con-found it! There,” said Solomon, making a 
dab at Miss Pross’s lips with his own. “Now are you con- 
tent?” 

Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence. 

“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solo- 
mon, “I am not surprised; I knew you were here; I know 
of most people who are here. If you really don’t want to 
endanger my existence — which I half believe you do — go 
your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am 
busy. I am an official.” 

“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, cast- 
ing up her tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him 
of one of the best and greatest of men in his native country, 
an official among foreigners, and such foreigners! I would 
almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in his ” 

“I said so !” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. 


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You want to be the death of me. I shall be rendered Sus- 
pected, by my own sister. Just as I am getting on !” 

“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss 
Pross. “Far rather would I never see you again, dear Solo- 
mon, though I have ever loved you truly, and ever shall. 
Say but one affectionate word to me, and tell me there is 
nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will detain you 
no longer.” 

Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them 
had come of any culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had 
not known it for a fact, years ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, 
that this precious brother had spent her money and left her ! 

He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far 
more grudging condescension and patronage than he could 
have shown if their relative merits and positions had been 
reversed (which is invariably the case, all the world over), 
when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder, hoarsely 
and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular 
question : 

“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your 
name is John Solomon, or Solomon John?” 

The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He 
had not previously uttered a word. 

“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” 
(Which, by the way, was more than he could do himself.) 
“John Solomon, or Solomon John? She calls you Solomon, 
and she must know, being your sister. And I know you’re 
John, you know. Which of the two goes first ? And regard- 
ing that name of Pross, likewise. That warn’t your name 
over the water.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, I don’t know all I mean, for I can’t call to mind 
what your name was, over the water.” 

“No?” 

“No. But I’ll swear it was a name of two syllables.” 

“Indeed?” 

“Yes. T’other one’s was one syllable. I know you. You 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


0 1 l 

was a spy- witness at the Bailey. What, in the name of the 
Father of Lies, own father to yourself, was you called at that 
time ? ” 

“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in. 

“ That's the name for a thousand pound !” cried Jerry. 

The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had 
his hands behind him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and 
he stood at Mr. Cruncher’s elbow as negligently as he might 
have stood at the Old Bailey itself. 

“Don’t be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. 
Lorry’s, to his surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I 
would not present myself elsewhere until all was well, or unless 
I could be useful ; I present myself here, to beg a little talk 
with your brother. I wish you had a better employed 
brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad 
was not a Sheep of the Prisons.” 

Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the 
gaolers. The spy, who was pale, turned paler, and asked 
him how he dared 

“I’ll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Bar- 
sad, coming out of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was 
contemplating the walls, an hour or more ago. You have a 
face to be remembered, and I remember faces well. Made 
curious by seeing you in that connection, and having a reason, 
to which you are no stranger, for associating you with the 
misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in 
your direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after 
you, and sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from 
your unreserved conversation, and the rumour openly going 
about among your admirers, the nature of your calling. And 
gradually, what I had done at random, seemed to shape itself 
into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.” 

“What purpose?” the spy asked. 

“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to 
explain in the street. Could you favour me, in confidence, 
with some minutes of your company — at the office of Tell- 
son’s Bank, for instance?” 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“Under a threat?” 

“Oh! Did I say that?” 

“Then, why should I go there?” 

“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can’t say, if you can’t.” 

“Do you mean that you won’t say, sir?” the spy irreso- 
lutely asked. 

“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won’t.” 

Carton’s negligent recklessness of manner came power- 
fully in aid of his quickness and skill, in such a business as he 
had in his secret mind, and with such a man as he had to do 
with. His practised eye saw it, and made the most of it. 

“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful 
look at his sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it’s your 
doing.” 

“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don’t 
be ungrateful. But for my great respect for your sister, I 
might not have led up so pleasantly to a little proposal that 
I wish to make for our mutual satisfaction. Do you go with 
me to the Bank?” 

“I’ll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I’ll go with 
you.” 

“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the 
corner of her own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. 
This is not a good city, at this time, for you to be out in, 
unprotected; and as your escort knows Mr. Barsad, I will 
invite him to Mr. Lorry’s with us. Are we ready? Come 
then !” 

Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her 
life remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney’s 
arm and looked up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to 
Solomon, there was a braced purpose in the arm and a kind of 
inspiration in the eyes, which not only contradicted his light 
manner, but changed and raised the man. She was too much 
occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved 
her affection, and with Sydney’s friendly reassurances, ade- 
quately to heed what she observed. 

They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the 


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319 


way to Mr. Lorry's, which was within a few minutes’ walk. 
John Barsad, or Solomon Pross, walked at his side. 

Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting 
before a cheery little log or two of fire — perhaps looking into 
their blaze for the picture of that younger elderly gentleman 
from Tellson’s, who had looked into the red coals at the Royal 
George at Dover, now a good many years ago. He turned 
his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with which 
he saw a stranger. 

“Miss Pross’s brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.” 

“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I 
have an association with the name — and with the face.” 

“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” ob- 
served Carton, coolly. “Pray sit down.” 

As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. 
Lorry wanted, by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at 
that trial.” Mr. Lorry immediately remembered, and re- 
garded his new visitor with an undisguised look of abhorrence. 

“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the 
affectionate brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, “and 
has acknowledged the relationship. I pass to worse news. 
Darnay has been arrested again.” 

Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, 
“What do you tell me ! I left him safe and free within these 
two hours, and am about to return to him ! ” 

“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?” 

“Just now, if at all.” 

“Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said 
Sydney, “and I have it from Mr. Barsad ’s communication to 
a friend and brother Sheep over a bottle of wine, that the 
arrest has taken place. He left the messengers at the gate, 
and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no earthly 
doubt that he is retaken.” 

Mr. Lorry’s business eye read in the speaker’s face that it 
was loss of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but 
sensible that something might depend on his presence of mind, 
he commanded himself, and was silently attentive. 


320 


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“Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, “that the name and 
influence of Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead 
to-morrow — you said he would be before the Tribunal 
again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad? ” 

“Yes; I believe so.” 

“ — In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may 
not be so. I own to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor 
Manette's not having had the power to prevent this arrest.” 

“ He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry. 

“ But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we 
remember how identified he is with his son-in-law.” 

“That's true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled 
hand at his chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton. 

“In short,” said Sydney, “this is a desperate time, when 
desperate games are played for desperate stakes. Let the 
Doctor play the winning game ; I will pl^y the losing one. 
No man's life here is worth purchase. Any one carried home 
by the people to-day, may be condemned to-morrow. Now, 
the stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a 
friend in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to my- 
self to win, is Mr. Barsad.” 

“You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy. 

“I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold, — Mr. Lorry, 
you know what a brute I am ; I wish you'd give me a little 
brandy.” 

It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful — drank 
off another glassful — pushed the bottle thoughtfully away. 

“Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really 
was looking over a hand at cards: “Sheep of the prisons, 
emissary of Republican committees, now turnkey, now 
prisoner, always spy and secret informer, so much the more 
valuable here for being English that an Englishman is less 
open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a 
Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a 
false name. That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in 
the employ of the republican French government, was formerly 
in the employ of the aristocratic English government, the 


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321 


enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellent card. 
Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr. 
Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, 
is the spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouch- 
ing in its bosom, the English traitor and agent of all mischief 
so much spoken of and so difficult to find. That's a card not 
to be beaten. Have you followed my hand, Mr. Barsad?" 

“Not to understand your play," returned the spy, some- 
what uneasily. 

“ I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest 
Section Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and 
see what you have. Don't hurry." 

He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of 
brandy, and drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful 
of his drinking himself into a fit state for the immediate 
denunciation of him. Seeing it, he poured out and drank 
another glassful. 

“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time." 

It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw 
losing cards in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. 
Thrown out of his honourable employment in England, 
through too much unsuccessful hard swearing there — not 
because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for 
vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very 
modern date — he knew that he had crossed the Channel, 
and accepted service in France: first, as a tempter and an 
eavesdropper among his own countrymen there: gradually, 
as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He 
knew that under the overthrown government he had been a 
spy upon Saint Antoine and Defarge's wine-shop; had 
received from the watchful police such heads of information 
concerning Doctor Manette's imprisonment, release, and 
history, as should serve him for an introduction to familiar 
conversation with the Defarges ; and tried them on Madame 
Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He 
always remembered with fear and trembling, that that terrible 
woman had knitted when he talked with her, and had looked 


Y 


322 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


ominously at him as her fingers moved. He had since seen 
her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over again 
produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose 
lives the guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, 
as every one employed as he was did, that he was never safe ; 
that flight was impossible; that he was tied fast under the 
shadow of the axe ; and that in spite of his utmost tergiversa- 
tion and treachery in furtherance of the reigning terror, a word 
might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such 
grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, 
he foresaw that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting 
character he had seen many proofs, would produce against 
him that fatal register, and would quash his last chance of 
life. Besides that all secret men are men soon terrified, 
here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify 
the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over. 

“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with 
the greatest composure. “Do you play?” 

“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as 
he turned to Mr. Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of 
your years and benevolence, to put it to this other gentle- 
man, so much your junior, whether he can under any cir- 
cumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace of 
which he has spoken. I admit that I am a spy, and that 
it is considered a discreditable station — though it must be 
filled by somebody ; but this gentleman is no spy, and why 
should he so demean himself as to make himself one?” 

“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the 
answer on himself, and looking at his watch, “without any 
scruple, in a very few minutes.” 

“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, al- 
ways striving to hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that 
your respect for my sister ” 

“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than 
by finally relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton. 

“You think not, sir?” 

“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


323 


The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance 
with his ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his 
usual demeanour, received such a check from the inscruta- 
bility of Carton, — who was a mystery to wiser and honester 
men than he, — that it faltered here and failed him. While 
he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air of 
contemplating cards : 

“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impres- 
sion that I have another good card here, not yet enumerated. 
That friend and fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pas- 
turing in the country prisons; who was he?” 

“French. You don't know him,” said the spy, quickly. 

“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appear- 
ing to notice him at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; 
he may be.” 

“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it's not impor- 
tant.” 

“Though it's not important,” repeated Carton, in the 

same mechanical way — “though it's not important 

No, it's not important. No. Yet I know the face.” 

“I think not. I am sure not. It can't be,” said the spy. 

“It — can’t — be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospec- 
tively, and filling his glass (which fortunately was a small 
one) again. “Can't — be. Spoke good French. Yet like a 
foreigner, I thought?” 

“Provincial,” said the spy. 

“ No. Foreign ! ” cried Carton, striking his open hand on 
the table, as a light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly ! Dis- 
guised, but the same man. We had that man before us at 
the Old Bailey.” 

“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile 
that gave his aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side ; 
“there you really give me an advantage over you. Cly (who 
I will unreservedly admit, at this distance of time, was a 
partner of mine) has been dead several years. I attended 
him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the 
church of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity 


324 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


with the blackguard multitude at the moment prevented my 
following his remains, but I helped to lay him in his coffin. ,, 

Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a 
most remarkable goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to 
its source, he discovered it to be caused by a sudden extraor- 
dinary rising and stiffening of all the risen and stiff hair on 
Mr. Cruncher's head. 

“Let us be reasonable," said the spy, “and let us be fair. 
To show you how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded 
assumption yours is, I will lay before you a certificate of 
Cly's burial, which I happened to have carried in my pocket- 
book," with a hurried hand he produced and opened it, “ever 
since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it ! You may 
take it in your hand; it’s no forgery." 

Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to 
elongate, and Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His 
hair could not have been more violently on end, if it had been 
that moment dressed by the Cow with the crumpled horn in 
the house that Jack built. 

Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and 
touched him on the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff. 

“That there Roger Cly, master," said Mr. Cruncher, with 
a taciturn and iron-bound visage. “So you put him in his 
coffin ?" 

“I did." 

“Who took him out of it?" 

Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “What 
do you mean?" 

“I mean," said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn’t never in it. 
No ! Not he ! I'll have my head took off, if he was ever in 
it." 

The spy looked round at the two gentlemen ; they both 
looked in unspeakable astonishment at Jerry. 

“I tell you," said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones 
and earth in that there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you 
buried Cly. It was a take in. Me and two more knows it." 

“How do you know it?" 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


325 


“ What’s that to you ? Ecod ! ” growled Mr. Cruncher, 
“it’s you I have got a old grudge again, is it, with your 
shameful impositions upon tradesmen ! I’d catch hold of 
your throat and choke you for half a guinea.” 

Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in 
amazement at this turn of the business, here requested Mr. 
Cruncher to moderate and explain himself. 

“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the 
present time is ill-conwenient for explainin’. What I stand 
to, is, that he knows well wot that there Cly was never in that 
there coffin. Let him say he was, in so much as a word of one 
syllable, and I’ll either catch hold of his throat and choke him 
for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as quite a 
liberal offer; “or I’ll out and announce him.” 

“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold 
another card, Mr. Barsad. Impossible, here in raging Paris, 
with Suspicion filling the air, for you to outlive denunciation, 
when you are in communication with another aristocratic 
spy. of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has 
the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to 
life again ! A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the 
Republic. A strong card — a certain Guillotine card ! Do 
you play?” 

“ No ! ” returned the spy. “ I throw up. I confess that we 
were so unpopular with the outrageous mob, that I only got 
away from England at the risk of being ducked to death, and 
that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that he never would 
have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this 
man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.” 

“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted 
the contentious Mr. Cruncher; “you’ll have trouble enough 
with giving your attention to that gentleman. And look 
here ! Once more !” — Mr. Cruncher could not be restrained 
from making rather an ostentatious parade of his liberality — • 
“I’d catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a 
guinea.” 

The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Car- 


326 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


ton, and said, with more decision, “ It has come to a point. I 
go on duty soon, and can't overstay my time. You told me 
you had a proposal ; what is it ? Now, it is of no use asking too 
much of me. Ask me to do anything in my office, putting my 
head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my life to 
the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short, 
I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We 
are all desperate here. Remember ! I may denounce you if 
I think proper, and I can swear my way through stone walls, 
and so can others. Now, what do you want with me?” 

“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Concier- 
gerie ?” 

“ I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape 
possible,” said the spy, firmly. 

“ Why need you tell me what I have not asked ? You are a 
turnkey at the Conciergerie ? ” 

“I am sometimes.” 

“You can be when you choose?” 

“ I can pass in and out when I choose.” 

Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured 
it slowly out upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. 
It being all spent, he said, rising : 

“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was 
as well that the merits of the cards should not rest solely 
between you and me. Come into the dark room here, and let 
us have one final word alone.” 



CHAPTER IX 


THE GAME MADE 


While Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in 
the adjoining dark room, speaking so low that not a sound 
was heard, Mr. Lorry looked at Jerry in considerable doubt 
and mistrust. That honest tradesman's manner of receiv- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


327 


ing the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the leg 
on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs, 
and were trying them all ; he examined his finger-nails with a 
very questionable closeness of attention ; and whenever Mr. 
Lorry’s eye caught his, he was taken with that peculiar kind 
of short cough requiring the hollow of a hand before it, which 
is seldom, if ever, known to be an infirmity attendant on 
perfect openness of character. 

“Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry. “Come here.” 

Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoul- 
ders in advance of him. 

“What have you been, besides a messenger?” 

After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look 
at his patron, Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of 
replying, “ Agricultooral character.” 

“My mind misgives me much,” said Mr. Lorry, angrily 
shaking a forefinger at him, “that you have used the respec- 
table and great house of Tellson’s as a blind, and that you 
have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous descrip- 
tion. If you have, don’t expect me to befriend you when 
you get back to England. If you have, don’t expect me to 
keep your secret. Tellson’s shall not be imposed upon.” 

“I hope, sir,” pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, “that 
a gentleman like yourself wot I’ve had the honour of odd job- 
bing till I’m grey at it, would think twice about harming of 
me, even if it wos so — I don’t say it is, but even if it wos. 
And which it is to be took into account that if it wos, it 
wouldn’t, even then, be all o’ one side. There’d be two sides 
to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, 
a picking up their guineas where a honest tradesman don’t 
pick up his fardens — fardens ! no, nor yet his half fardens — 
half fardens! no, nor yet his quarter — a banking away 
like smoke at Tellson’s, and a cocking their medical eyes 
at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going out to 
their own carriages — ah ! equally like smoke, if not more so. 
Well, that ’ud be imposing, too, on Tellson’s. For you can- 
not sarse the goose and not the gander. And here’s Mrs. 


328 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Cruncher, or leastways wos in the Old England times, and 
would, be to-morrow, if cause given, a floppin’ again the 
business to that degree as is ruinating — stark ruinating ! 
Whereas them medical doctors’ wives don’t flop — catch 
’em at it ! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of 
more patients, and how can you rightly have one without 
the t’other? Then, wot with undertakers, and wot with 
parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot with private 
watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn’t 
get much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did 
get, would never prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He’d never 
have no good of it ; he’d want all along to be out of the line, 
if he could see his way out, being once in — even if it wos so.” 

“Ugh!” cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless. 
“I am shocked at the sight of you.” 

“Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,” pursued 
Mr. Cruncher, “even if it wos so, which I don’t say it is ” 

“Don’t prevaricate,” said Mr. Lorry. 

“No, I will not, sir,” returned Mr. Cruncher, as if nothing 
were further from his thoughts or practice —“which I don’t 
say it is — wot I would humbly offer to you, sir, would be 
this. Upon that there stool, at that there Bar, sets that there 
boy of mine, brought up and growed up to be a man, wot will 
errand you, message you, general-light- job you, till your 
heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If 
it wos so, which I still don’t say it is (for I will not prewari- 
cate to you, sir), let that there boy keep his father’s place, 
and take care of his mother; don’t blow upon that boy’s 
father — do not do it, sir — and let that father go into the 
line of the reg’lar diggin’, and make amends for what he would 
have un-dug — if it wos so — by diggin’ of ’em in with a 
will, and with conwictions respectin’ the futur’ keepin’ of ’em 
safe. That, Mr. Lorry,” said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his fore- 
head with his arm, as an announcement that he had arrived 
at the peroration of his discourse, “is wot I would respect- 
fully offer to you, sir. A man don’t see all this here a goin’ 
on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects without heads, 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


329 


dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down to 
porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts 
of things. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, en- 
treatin' of you fur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, 
I up and said in the good cause when I might have kep' it 
back." 

“That at least is true," said Mr. Lorry. “Say no more 
now. It may be that I shall yet stand your friend, if you 
deserve it, and repent in action — not in words. I want no 
more words." 

Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton 
and the spy returned from the dark room. “Adieu, Mr. 
Barsad," said the former; “our arrangement thus made, 
you have nothing to fear from me." 

He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. 
Lorry. When they were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he 
had done? 

“Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have 
ensured access to him, once." 

Mr. Lorry's countenance fell. 

“It is all I could do," said Carton. “To propose too 
much, would be to put this man's head under the axe, and, 
as he himself said, nothing worse could happen to him if he 
were denounced. It was obviously the weakness of the posi- 
tion. There is no help for it." 

“But access to him," said Mr. Lorry, “if it should go ill 
before the Tribunal, will not save him." 

“I never said it would." 

Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire ; his sympathy 
with his darling, and the heavy disappointment of his second 
arrest, gradually weakened them; he was an old man now, 
overborne with anxiety of late, and his tears fell. 

“You are a good man and a true friend," said Carton, in 
an altered voice. “Forgive me if I notice that you are af- 
fected. I could not see my father weep, and sit by, careless. 
And I could not respect your sorrow more, if you were my 
father. You are free from that misfortune, however." 


330 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual 
manner, there was a true feeling and respect both in his tone 
and in his touch, that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the bet- 
ter side of him, was wholly unprepared for. He gave him his 
hand, and Carton gently pressed it. 

“To return to poor Darnay,” said Carton. “Don’t tell 
Her of this interview, or this arrangement. It would not 
enable Her to go to see him. She might think it was con- 
trived, in case of the worst, to convey to him the means of 
anticipating the sentence.” 

Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly 
at Carton to see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be ; he 
returned the look, and evidently understood it. 

“She might think a thousand things,” Carton said, “and 
any of them would only add to her trouble. Don’t speak 
of me to her. As I said to you when I first came, I had bet- 
ter not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any little 
helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without 
that. You are going to her, I hope? She must be very 
desolate to-night.” 

“I am going now, directly.” 

“I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to 
you and reliance on you. How does she look?” 

“Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.” 

“Ah!” 

It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh — almost like a 
sob. It attracted Mr. Lorry’s eyes to Carton’s face, which 
was turned to the fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentle- 
man could not have said which), passed from it as swiftly as 
a change will sweep over a hill-side on a wild bright day, and 
he lifted his foot to put back one of the little flaming logs, 
which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat 
and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touch- 
ing their light surfaces made him look very pale, with his 
long brown hair, all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. 
His indifference to fire was sufficiently remarkable to elicit a 
word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry; his boot was still 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


331 


upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had broken 
under the weight of his foot. 

“I forgot it,” he said. 

Mr. Lorry’s eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking 
note of the wasted air which clouded the naturally hand- 
some features, and having the expression of prisoners’ faces 
fresh in his mind, he was strongly reminded of that expression. 

“And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?” said 
Carton, turning to him. 

“Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came 
in so unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do 
here. I hoped to have left them in perfect safety, and then to 
have quitted Paris. I have my Leave to Pass. I was ready 
to go.” 

They were both silent. 

“Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?” said Carton, 
wistfully. 

“I am in my seventy-eighth year.” 

“You have been useful all your life; steadily and con- 
stantly occupied; trusted, respected, and looked up to?” 

“ I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a 
man. Indeed, I may say that I was a man of business when 
a boy.” 

“See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many 
people will miss you when you leave it empty ! ” 

“A solitary old bachelor,” answered Mr. Lorry, shaking 
his head. “There is nobody to weep for me.” 

“How can you say that? Wouldn’t She weep for you? 
Wouldn’t her child?” 

“Yes, yes, thank God. I didn’t quite mean what I said.” 

“It is a thing to thank God for; is it not?” 

“Surely, surely.” 

“ If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, 
to-night, ‘ I have secured to myself the love and attachment, 
the gratitude or respect, of no human creature ; I have won 
myself a tender place in no regard; I have done nothing 
good or serviceable to be remembered by ! ’ your seventy- 


332 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they 
not?” 

“You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.” 

Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a 
silence of a few moments, said: 

“ I should like to ask you : — Does your childhood seem far 
off? Do the days when you sat at your mother's knee, 
seem days of very long ago?” 

Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered : 

“Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, 
as I draw closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, 
nearer and nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the 
kind smoothings and preparings of the way. My heart is 
touched now, by many remembrances that had long fallen 
asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!), and by 
many associations of the days when what we call the World 
was not so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in 
me.” 

“I understand the feeling!” exclaimed Carton, with a 
bright flush. “And you are the better for it?” 

“ I hope so.” 

Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help 
him on with his outer coat; “but you,” said Mr. Lorry, 
reverting to the theme, “you are young.” 

“Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way 
was never the way to age. Enough of me.” 

“And of me, I am sure,” said Mr. Lorry. “Are you going 
out?” 

“I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond 
and restless habits. If I should prowl about the streets a 
long time, don't be uneasy ; I shall reappear in the morning. 
You go to the Court to-morrow?” 

“Yes, unhappily.” 

“I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy 
will find a place for me. Take my arm, sir.” 

Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in 
the streets. A few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry’s 


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333 


destination. Carton left him there ; but lingered at a little 
distance, and turned back to the gate again when it was 
shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to the 
prison every day. “She came out here,” he said, looking 
about him, “turned this way, must have trod on these stones 
often. Let me follow in her steps.” 

It was ten o’clock at night when he stood before the prison 
of La Force, where she had stood hundreds of times. A little 
wood-sawyer, having closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at 
his shop-door. 

“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in 
going by ; for, the man eyed him inquisitively. 

“Good night, citizen.” 

“How goes the Republic?” 

“You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. 
We shall mount to a hundred soon. Samson and his men 
complain sometimes, of being exhausted. Ha, ha, ha ! He 
is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!” 

“Do you often go to see him ” 

“ Shave ? Always. Every day. What a batber ! You 
have seen him at work ? ” 

“Never.” 

“ Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to 
yourself, citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less 
than two pipes! Less than two pipes. Word of honour !” 

As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smok- 
ing, to explain how he timed the executioner, Carton was so 
sensible of a rising desire to strike the life out of him, that he 
turned away. 

“ But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though 
you wear English dress ? ” 

“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his 
shoulder. 

“You speak like a Frenchman.” 

“I am an old student here.” 

“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.” 

“Good night, citizen.” 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“But go and see that droll dog/’ the little man per- 
sisted, calling after him. “And take a pipe with you!” 

Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in 
the middle of the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote 
with his pencil on a scrap of paper. Then, traversing with 
the decided step of one who remembered the way well, sev- 
eral dark and dirty streets — much dirtier than usual, for 
the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those 
times of terror — he stopped at a chemist’s shop, which the 
owner was closing with his own hands. A small, dim, crooked 
shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill thoroughfare, by a small, 
dim, crooked man. 

Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him 
at his counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. 
“ Whew ! ” the chemist whistled softly, as he read it. “ Hi ! 
hi ! hi ! ” 

Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said : 

“For you, citizen?” 

“For me.” 

“You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You 
know the consequences of mixing them ? ” 

“ Perfectly.” 

Certain small packets were made and given to him. He 
put them, one by one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted 
out the money for them, and deliberately left the shop. 
“There is nothing more to do,” said he, glancing upward 
at the moon, “until to-morrow. I can’t sleep.” 

It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said 
these words aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it 
more expressive of negligence than defiance. It was the 
settled manner of a tired man, who had wandered and 
struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into his road 
and saw its end. 

Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest 
competitors as a youth of great promise, he had followed his 
father to the grave. His mother had died, years before. These 
solemn words, which had been read at his father’s grave, 


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335 


arose in his mind as he went down the dark streets, among the 
heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing on high 
above him. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the 
Lord : he that belie veth in me, though he were dead, yet 
shall he live : and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, 
shall never die.”° 

In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural 
sorrow rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day 
put to death, and for to-morrow’s victims then awaiting their 
doom in the prisons, and still of to-morrow’s and to-morrow’s, 
the chain of association that brought the words home, like a 
rusty old ship’s anchor from the deep, might have been easily 
found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and went on. 

With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the 
people were going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours 
of the horrors surrounding them ; in the towers of the churches, 
where no prayers were said, for the popular revulsion had 
even travelled that length of self-destruction from years of 
priestly impostors, plunderers, and profligates; in the dis- 
tant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon the gates, 
for Eternal Sleep ; in the abounding gaols ; and in the streets 
along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become 
so common and material, that no sorrowful story of a haunt- 
ing Spirit ever arose among the people out of all the working 
of the Guillotine ; with a solemn interest in the whole life and 
death of the city settling down to its short nightly pause in 
fury ; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for the lighter 
streets. 

Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable 
to be suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, 
and put on heavy shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres 
were all well filled, and the people poured cheerfully out as he 
passed, and went chatting home. At one of the theatre doors, 
there was a little girl with a mother, looking for a way across 
the street through the mud. He carried the child over, and 
before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for 
a kiss. 


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“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he 
that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he 
live : and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never 
die.” 

Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, 
the words were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. 
Perfectly ealm and steady, he sometimes repeated them to 
himself as he walked; but, he heard them always. 

The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge lis- 
tening to the water as it splashed the river-walls of the 
Island of Paris, where the picturesque confusion of houses 
and cathedral shone bright in the light of the moon, the day 
came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the sky. Then, 
the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died, 
and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered 
over to Death's dominion. 

But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, 
that burden of the night, straight and warm to his heart in 
its long bright rays. And looking along them, with rever- 
ently shaded eyes, a bridge of light appeared to span the air 
between him and the sun, while the river sparkled under it. 

The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like 
a congenial friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by 
the stream, far from the houses, and in the light and warmth 
of the sun fell asleep on the bank. When he awoke and was 
afoot again, he lingered there yet a little longer, watching 
an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the stream 
absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea. — “Like me !” 

A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead 
leaf, then glided into his view, floated by him, and died 
away. As its silent track in the water disappeared, the 
prayer that had broken up out of his heart for a merciful con- 
sideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors, ended in the 
words, “I am the resurrection and the life.” 

Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was 
easy to surmise where the good old man was gone. Sydney 
Carton drank nothing but a little coffee, ate some bread, and, 


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337 


having washed and changed to refresh himself, went out to 
the place of trial. 

The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep 
— whom many fell away from in dread — pressed him into an 
obscure corner among the crowd. Mr. Lorry was there, and 
Doctor Manette was there. She was there, sitting beside her 
father. 

When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon 
him, so sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love 
and pitying tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that 
it called the healthy blood into his face, brightened his glance, 
and animated his heart. If there had been any eyes to notice 
the influence of her look, on Sydney Carton, it would have 
been seen to be the same influence exactly. 

Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of 
procedure, ensuring to any accused person any reasonable 
hearing. There could have been no such Revolution, if all 
laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not first been so mon- 
strously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the Revolution 
was to scatter them all to the winds. 

Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined 
patriots and good republicans as yesterday and the day before, 
and to-morrow and the day after. Eager and prominent 
among them, one man with a craving face, and his fingers 
perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance gave 
great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting, can- 
nibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three 
of St. Antoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empan- 
nelled to try the deer. 

Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public 
prosecutor. No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. 
A fell, uncompromising, murderous business-meaning there. 
Every eye then sought some other eye in the crowd, and 
gleamed at it approvingly ; and heads nodded at one another, 
before bending forward with a strained attention. 

Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. 
Reaccused and retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to 
z 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


him last night. Suspected and Denounced enemy of the 
Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants, one of a race 
proscribed, for that they had used their abolished privileges 
to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evre- 
monde, called Darnay, in right of such proscription, abso- 
lutely Dead in Law. 

To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prose- 
cutor. 

The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced 
or secretly ? 

“Openly, President.” 

“By whom?” 

“Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. 
Antoine.” 

“Good.” 

“Therese Defarge, his wife.” 

“Good.” 

“Alexandre Manette, physician.” 

A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of 
it, Doctor Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing 
where he had been seated. 

“ President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a 
forgery and a fraud. You know the accused to be the hus- 
band of my daughter. My daughter, and those dear to her, 
are far dearer to me than my life. Who and where is the 
false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband of my 
child !” 

“Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to 
the authority of the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of 
Law. As to what is dearer to you than life, nothing can be 
so dear to a good citizen as the Republic.” 

Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang 
his bell, and with warmth resumed. 

“ If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your 
child herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. 
Listen to what is to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent ! ” 

Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


339 


sat down, with his eyes looking around, and his lips trem- 
bling; his daughter drew closer to him. The craving man 
on the jury rubbed his hands together, and restored the usual 
hand to his mouth. 

Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough 
to admit of his being heard, and rapidly expounded the story 
of the imprisonment, and of his having been a mere boy in 
the Doctor’s service, and of the release, and of the state of 
the prisoner when released and delivered to him. This short 
examination followed, for the court was quick with its work. 

“ You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen ? ” 

‘‘I believe so.” 

Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd : “ You 
were one of the best patriots there. Why not say so ? You 
were a cannonier that day there, and you were among the first 
to enter the accursed fortress when it fell. Patriots, I speak 
the truth ! ” 

It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commenda- 
tions of the audience, thus assisted the proceedings. The 
President rang his bell; but, The Vengeance, warming with 
encouragement, shrieked, “I defy that bell!” wherein she 
was likewise much commended. 

“ Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within 
the Bastille, citizen.” 

“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who 
stood at the bottom of the steps on which he was raised, 
looking steadily up at him; “I knew that this prisoner, of 
whom I speak, had been confined in a cell known as One 
Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. 
He knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and 
Five, North Tower, when he made shoes under my care. As 
I serve my gun that day, I resolve, when the place shall fall, 
to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to the cell, with a 
fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a gaoler. I 
examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a 
stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. 
This is that written paper. I have made it my business to 


340 


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examine some specimens of the writing of Doctor Manette. 
This is the writing of Doctor Manette. I confide this paper, in 
the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of the President.” 

“Let it be read.” 

In a dead silence and stillness — the prisoner under trial 
looking lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him 
to look with solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping 
his eyes fixed on the reader, Madame Defarge never taking 
hers from the prisoner, Defarge never taking his from his 
feasting wife, and all the other eyes there intent upon the 
Doctor, who saw none of them — the paper was read, as 
follows. 



CHAPTER X 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW 


“I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native 
of Beauvais, and afterwards resident in Paris, write this 
melancholy paper in my doleful cell in the Bastille, during 
the last month of the year, 1767. I write it at stolen inter- 
vals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it in the wall 
of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a 
place of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find 
it there, when I and my sorrows are dust. 

“ These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which 
I write with difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from 
the chimney, mixed with blood, in the last month of the 
tenth year of my captivity. Hope has quite departed from 
my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have noted in 
myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but 
I solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession 
of my right mind — that my memory is exact and circum- 
stantial — and that I write the truth as I shall answer for 
these my last recorded words, whether they be ever read by 
men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


341 


“One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of Decem- 
ber (I think the twenty-second of the month) in the year 
1757, 1 was walking on a retired part of the quay by the 
Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air, at an hour’s 
distance from my place of residence in the Street of the 
School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, 
driven very fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, 
apprehensive that it might otherwise run me down, a head 
was put out at the window, and a voice called to the driver to 
stop. 

“The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in 
his horses, and the same voice called to me by my name. I 
answered. The carriage was then so far in advance of me 
that two gentlemen had time to open the door and alight 
before I came up with it. I observed that they were both 
wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to conceal themselves. As 
they stood side by side near the carriage door, I also observed 
that they both looked of about my own age, or rather younger, 
and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice, 
and (as far as I could see) face too. 

“‘You are Doctor Manette?’ said one. 

‘“I am.’ 

‘“Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais/ said the other; 
‘the young physician, originally an expert surgeon, who 
within the last year or two has made a rising reputation in 
Paris ? ’ 

“‘Gentlemen/ I returned, ‘I am that Doctor Manette of 
whom you speak so graciously.’ 

“‘We have been to your residence/ said the first, ‘and not 
being so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed 
that you were probably walking in this direction, we followed, 
in the hope of overtaking you. Will you please to enter the 
carriage ? ’ 

“The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, 
as these words were spoken, so as to place me between them- 
selves and the carriage door. They were armed. I was not. 

“‘Gentlemen,’ said I, ‘pardon me; but I usually inquire 


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who does me the honour to seek my assistance, and what is 
the nature of the case to which I am summoned/ 

“The reply to this was made by him who had spoken 
second. ‘ Doctor, your clients are people of condition. As to 
the nature of the case, our confidence in your skill assures us 
that you will ascertain it for yourself better than we can de- 
scribe it. Enough. Will you please to enter the carriage ? * 
“ I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. 
They both entered after me — the last springing in, after 
putting up the steps. The carriage turned about, and drove 
on at its former speed. 

“I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I 
have no doubt that it is, word for word, the same. I describe 
everything exactly as it took place, constraining my mind 
not to wander from the task. Where I make the broken 
marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my 
paper in its hiding-place. * * * * 

“The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North 
Barrier, and emerged upon the country road. At two- 
thirds of a league from the Barrier — I did not estimate the 
distance at that time, but afterwards when I traversed it — 
it struck out of the main avenue, and presently stopped at a 
solitary house. We all three alighted, and walked, by a damp 
soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had 
overflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened 
immediately, in answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of 
my two conductors struck the man who opened it, with his 
heavy riding glove, across the face. 

“There was nothing in this action to attract my particular 
attention, for I had seen common people struck more com- 
monly than dogs. But, the other of the two, being angry 
likewise, struck the man in like manner with his arm; the 
look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly alike, 
that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers. 

“From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which 
we found locked, and which one of the brothers had opened 
to admit us, and had relocked), I had heard cries proceeding 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


343 


from an upper chamber. I was conducted to this chamber 
straight, the cries growing louder as we ascended the stairs, 
and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain, lying on a 
bed. 

“The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; 
assuredly not much past twenty. Her hair was torn and 
ragged, and her arms were bound to her sides with sashes 
and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were all 
portions of a gentleman’s dress. On one of them, which was 
a fringed scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial 
bearings of a Noble, and the letter E. 

“I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation 
of the patient; for, in her restless strivings she had turned 
over on her face on the edge of the bed, had drawn the end 
of the scarf into her mouth, and was in danger of suffocation. 
My first act was to put out my hand to relieve her breathing ; 
and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the corner 
caught my sight. 

“ I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast 
to calm her and keep her down, and looked into her face. Her 
eyes were dilated and wild, and she constantly uttered 
piercing shrieks, and repeated the words, ‘My husband, my 
father, and my brother!’ and then counted up to twelve, 
and said, ‘ Hush ! ’ For an instant, and no more, she would 
pause to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin 
again, and she would repeat the cry, ‘My husband, my father, 
and my brother ! ’ and would count up to twelve, and say, 
‘ Hush ! ’ There was no variation in the order, or the manner. 
There was no cessation, but the regular moment’s pause, in 
the utterance of these sounds. 

“‘How long,’ I asked, ‘has this lasted?’ 

“To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder 
and the younger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised 
the most authority. It was the elder who replied, ‘Since 
about this hour last night.’ 

“‘She has a husband, a father, and a brother?’ 

“‘A brother.’ 


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“‘I do not address her brother?’ 

“He answered with great contempt, ‘No.’ 

“‘She has some recent association with the number 
twelve?’ 

“The younger brother impatiently rejoined, ‘With twelve 
o’clock.’ 

“‘See, gentlemen,’ said I, still keeping my hands upon her 
breast, ‘ how useless I am, as you have brought me ! If I 
had known what I was coming to see, I could have come 
provided. As it is, time must be lost. There are no medi- 
cines to be obtained in this lonely place.’ 

“The elder brother looked to the younger, who said 
haughtily, ‘ There is a case of medicines here ; ’ and brought 
it from a closet, and put it on the table. * * * * 

“I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the 
stoppers to my lips. If I had wanted to use anything save 
narcotic medicines that were poisons in themselves, I would 
not have administered any of those. 

“ ‘ Do you doubt them ? ’ asked the younger brother. 

“‘You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,’ I replied, 
and said no more. 

“ I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after 
many efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended 
to repeat it after a while, and as it was necessary to watch 
its influence, I then sat down by the side of the bed. There 
was a timid and suppressed woman in attendance (wife of the 
man down-stairs), who had retreated into a corner. The 
house was damp and decayed, indifferently furnished — 
evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some 
thick old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to 
deaden the sound of the shrieks. They continued to be 
uttered in their regular succession, with the cry, ‘ My husband, 
my father, and my brother!’ the counting up to twelve, and 
‘ Hush ! ’ The frenzy was so violent, that I had not un- 
fastened the bandages restraining the arms ; but, I had looked 
to them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark 
of encouragement in the case, was, that my hand upon the 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


345 


sufferer’s breast had this much soothing influence, that for 
minutes at a time it tranquillised the figure. It had no effect 
upon the cries ; no pendulum could be more regular. 

“For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), 
I had sat by the side of the bed for half an hour, with the 
two brothers looking on, before the elder said : 

“‘There is another patient.’ 

“I was startled, and asked, ‘Is it a pressing case?’ 

“‘You had better see,’ he carelessly answered; and took 
up a light. * * * * 

“The other patient lay in a back room across a second 
staircase, which was a species of loft over a stable. There 
was a low plastered ceiling to a part of it ; the rest was open, 
to the ridge of the tiled roof, and there were beams across. 
Hay and straw were stored in that portion of the place, 
fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to pass 
through that part, to get at the other. My memory is cir- 
cumstantial and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I 
see them all, in this my cell in the Bastille, near the close 
of the tenth year of my captivity, as I saw them all that 
night. 

“On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under 
his head, lay a handsome peasant boy — a boy of not more 
than seventeen at the most. He lay on his back, with his 
teeth set, his right hand clenched on his breast, and his glaring 
eyes looking straight upward. I could not see where his 
wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him ; but, I could 
see that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point. 

“‘I am a doctor, my poor fellow,’ said I. ‘Let me exam- 
ine it.’ 

“‘I do not want it examined,’ he answered; ‘let it be.’ 

“ It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move 
his hand away. The wound was a sword-thrust, received 
from twenty to twenty-four hours before, but no skill could 
have saved him if it had been looked to without delay. He 
was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder 
brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose 


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life was ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or 
rabbit; not at all as if he were a fellow-creature. 

“‘How has this been done, monsieur?’ said I. 

“‘A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my 
brother to draw upon him, and has fallen by my brother’s 
sword — like a gentleman.’ 

“There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, 
in this answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it 
was inconvenient to have that different order of creature 
dying there, and that it would have been better if he had died 
in the usual obscure routine of his vermin kind. He was 
quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about the boy, 
or about his fate. 

“ The boy’s eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, 
and they now slowly moved to me. 

“‘Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we 
common dogs are proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, 
outrage us, beat us, kill us; but we have a little pride left, 
sometimes. She — have you seen her, Doctor ? ’ 

“The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though 
subdued by the distance. He referred to them, as if she were 
lying in our presence. 

“I said, ‘I have seen her.’ 

“‘She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shame- 
ful rights, these Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our 
sisters, many years, but we have had good girls among us. I 
know it, and have heard my father say so. She was a good 
girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too : a tenant 
of his. We were all tenants of his — that man’s who stands 
there. The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.’ 

“ It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered 
bodily force to speak ; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful 
emphasis. 

“‘We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as 
all we common dogs are by those superior Beings — taxed 
by him without mercy, obliged to work for him without pay, 
obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged to feed scores of 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


347 


his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden for our 
lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and 
plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a 
bit of meat, we ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shut- 
ters closed, that his people should not see it and take it from 
us — I say, we were so robbed, and hunted, and were made 
so poor, that our father told us it was a dreadful thing to bring 
a child into the world, and that what we should most pray 
for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable 
race die out ! ’ 

“I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, 
bursting forth like a fire. I had supposed that it must be 
latent in the people somewhere; but, I had never seen it 
break out, until I saw it in the dying boy. 

“‘Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was 
ailing at that time, poor fellow, and she married her lover, that 
she might tend and comfort him in our cottage — our dog- 
hut, as that man would call it. She had not been married 
many weeks, when that man’s brother saw her and admired 
her, and asked that man to lend her to him — for what are 
husbands among us ! He was willing enough, but my 
sister was good and virtuous, and hated his brother with 
a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two then, to per- 
suade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her 
willing ? ’ 

“The boy’s eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly 
turned to the looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he 
said was true. The two opposing kinds of pride confronting 
one another, I can see, even in this Bastille ; the gentleman’s, 
all negligent indifference; the peasant’s, all trodden-down 
sentiment, and passionate revenge. 

“‘You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these 
Nobles to harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. 
They so harnessed him and drove him. You know that it 
is among their Rights to keep us in their grounds all night, 
quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep may not be 
disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists 


348 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


at night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. 
But he was not persuaded. No ! Taken out of harness 
one day at noon, to feed - - if he could find food — he sobbed 
twelve times, once for every stroke of the bell, and died on her 
bosom.’ 

“Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his 
determination to tell all his wrong. He forced back the 
gathering shadows of death, as he forced his clenched right 
hand to remain clenched, and to cover his wound. 

“‘Then, with that man’s permission and even with his aid, 
his brother took her aw'ay ; in spite of what I know she must 
have told his brother — and what that is, will not be long 
unknown to you, Doctor, if it is now — his brother took her 
away — for his pleasure and diversion, for a little while. I 
saw her pass me on the road. When I took the tidings home, 
our father’s heart burst; he never spoke one of the words 
that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a 
place beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she 
will never be his vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, 
and last night climbed in — a common dog, but sword in 
hand. — Where is the loft window ? It was somewhere here ? ’ 

“The room was darkening to his sight; the world was 
narrowing around him. I glanced about me, and saw that 
the hay and straw were trampled over the floor, as if there 
had been a struggle. 

“‘She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near 
us till he was dead. He came in and first tossed me some 
pieces of money; then struck at me with a whip. But I, 
though a common dog, so struck at him as to make him draw. 
Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword that 
he stained with my common blood ; he drew to defend him- 
self — thrust at me with all his skill for his life.’ 

“My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the 
fragments of a broken sword, lying among the hay. That 
weapon was a gentleman’s. In another place, lay an old 
sword that seemed to have been a soldier’s. 

“ ‘ Now, lift me up, Doctor ; lift me up. Where is he ? ’ 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


349 


“‘He is not here/ I said, supporting the boy, and thinking 
that he referred to the brother. 

“ ‘ He ! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. 
Where is the man who was here? Turn my face to him/ 

“I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, 
invested for the moment with extraordinary power, he raised 
himself completely: obliging me to rise too, or I could not 
have still supported him. 

“‘Marquis/ said the boy, turned to him with his eyes 
opened wide, and his right hand raised, ‘in the days when 
all these things are to be answered for, I summon you and 
yours, to the last of your bad race, to answer for them. I 
mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that I do it. In 
the days when all these things are to be answered for, I sum- 
mon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for 
them separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a 
sign that I do it.' 

“Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and 
with his forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an 
instant with the finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he 
dropped with it, and I laid him down dead. * * * * 

“When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I 
found her raving in precisely the same order of continuity. 
I knew that this might last for many hours, and that it 
would probably end in the silence of the grave. 

“ I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the 
side of the bed until the night was far advanced. She never 
abated the piercing quality of her shrieks, never stumbled 
in the distinctness or the order of her words. They were 
always ‘My husband, my father, and my brother! One, 
two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, 
twelve. Hush ! ' 

“This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first 
saw her. I had come and gone twice, and was again sitting 
by her, when she began to falter. I did what little could be 
done to assist that opportunity, and by-and-bye she sank into 
a lethargy, and lay like the dead. 


350 


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“It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a 
long and fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the 
woman to assist me to compose her figure and the dress she 
had torn. It was then that I knew her condition to be that 
of one in whom the first expectations of being a mother have 
arisen ; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had had 
of her. 

“ ‘ Is she dead ? ' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe 
as the elder brother, coming booted into the room from his 
horse. 

“‘Not dead/ said I; ‘but like to die.’ 

“ ‘ What strength there is in these common bodies ! ' he said, 
looking down at her with some curiosity. 

“ ‘There is prodigious strength/ I answered him, ‘in sorrow 
and despair.' 

“He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. 
He moved a chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the 
woman away, and said in a subdued voice, 

“‘Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these 
hinds, I recommended that your aid should be invited. 
Your reputation is high, and, as a young man with your for- 
tune to make, you are probably mindful of your interest. 
The things that you see here, are things to be seen, and not 
spoken of.' 

“I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answer- 
ing. 

“‘Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?' 

“‘Monsieur/ said I, ‘in my profession, the communica- 
tions of patients are always received in confidence.' 1 was 
guarded in my answer, for I was troubled in my mind with 
what I had heard and seen. 

“Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully 
tried the pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. 
Looking round as I resumed my seat, I found both the broth- 
ers intent upon me. * * * * 

“I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I 
am so fearful of being detected and consigned to an under- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


351 


ground cell and total darkness, that I must abridge this nar- 
rative. There is no confusion or failure in my memory; it 
can recall, and could detail, every word that was ever spoken 
between me and those brothers. 

“ She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could under- 
stand some few syllables that she said to me, by placing my 
ear close to her lips. She asked me where she was, and I 
told her; who I was, and I told her. It was in vain that I 
asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her head 
upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done. 

“I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I 
had told the brothers she was sinking fast, and could not 
live another day. Until then, though no one was ever pre- 
sented to her consciousness save the woman and myself, 
one or other of them had always jealously sat behind the cur- 
tain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it 
came to that, they seemed careless what communication I 
might hold with her ; as if — the thought passed through my 
mind — I were dying too. 

“I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the 
younger brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with 
a peasant, and that peasant a boy. The only considera- 
tion that appeared to affect the mind of either of them 
was the consideration that this was highly degrading to 
the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the 
younger brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that 
he disliked me deeply, for knowing what I knew from the 
boy. He was smoother and more polite to me than the elder ; 
but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance in the 
mind of the elder, too. 

“My patient died, two hours before midnight — at a time, 
by my watch, answering almost to the minute when I had first 
seen her. I was alone with her, when her forlorn young 
head drooped gently on one side, and all her earthly wrongs 
and sorrows ended. 

“The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impa- 
tient to ride away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, 


352 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


striking their boots with their riding-whips, and loitering up 
and down. 

“ ‘ At last she is dead ? * said the elder, when I went in. 

‘“She is dead/ said I. 

“‘I congratulate you, my brother/ were his words as he 
turned round. 

“He had before offered me money, which I had post- 
poned taking. He now gave me a rouleau of gold. I took 
it from his hand, but laid it on the table. I had considered 
the question, and had resolved to accept, nothing. 

“‘Pray excuse me/ said I. ‘Under the circumstances, 
no.' 

“They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I 
bent mine to them, and we parted without another word on 
either side. * * * * 

“I am weary, weary, weary — worn down by misery. I 
cannot read what I have written with this gaunt hand. 

“ Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my 
door in a little box, with my name on the outside. From 
the first, I had anxiously considered what I ought to do. I 
decided, that day, to write privately to the Minister, stating 
the nature of the two cases to which I had been summoned, 
and the place to which I had gone : in effect, stating all the 
circumstances. 1 knew what Court influence was, and what 
the immunities of the Nobles were, and I expected that the 
matter would never be heard of ; but, I wished to relieve 
my own mind. I had kept the matter a profound secret, 
even from my wife ; and this, too, I resolved to state in my 
letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger ; 
but I was conscious that there might be danger for others, 
if others were compromised by possessing the knowledge 
that I possessed. 

“I was much engaged that day, and could not complete 
my letter that night. I rose long before my usual time next 
morning to finish it. It was the last day of the year. The 
letter was lying before me just completed, when I was told 
that a lady waited, who wished to see me. * * * * 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


353 


“ I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have 
set myself. It is so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, 
and the gloom upon me is so dreadful. 

“The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not 
marked for long life. She was in great agitation. She 
presented herself to me as the wife of the Marquis St. Evre- 
monde. I connected the title by which the boy had addressed 
the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered on the 
scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that 
I had seen that nobleman very lately. 

“ My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words 
of our conversation. I suspect that I am watched more 
closely than I was, and I know not at what times I may be 
watched. She had in part suspected, and in part discovered, 
the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband’s share in 
it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the 
girl was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, 
to show her, in secret, a woman’s sympathy. Her hope had 
been to avert the wrath of Heaven from a House that had 
long been hateful to the suffering many. 

“She had reasons for believing that there was a young 
sister living, and her greatest desire was, to help that sister. 
I could tell her nothing but that there was such a sister; 
beyond that, I knew nothing. Her inducement to come to me, 
relying on my confidence, had been the hope that I could tell 
her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this wretched 
hour I am ignorant of both. * * * * 

“These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, 
with a warning, yesterday. I must finish my record to-day. 

“She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in 
her marriage. How could she be! The brother distrusted 
and disliked her, and his influence was all opposed to her; 
she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her husband too. 
When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a 
pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage. 

“‘For his sake, Doctor,’ she said, pointing to him in tears, 

‘ I would do all I can to make what poor amends I can. He 
2 A 


354 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


will never prosper in his inheritance otherwise. I have a 
presentiment that if no other innocent atonement is made for 
this, it will one day be required of him. What I have left 
to call my own — it is little beyond the worth of a few jewels 
— I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with 
the compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this 
injured family, if the sister can be discovered/ 

“She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, ‘It is for 
thine own dear sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' 
The child answered her bravely, ‘Yes!' I kissed her hand, 
and she took him in her arms, and went away caressing him. 
I never saw her more. 

“As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith 
that I knew it, I added no mention of it to my letter. I 
sealed my letter, and, not trusting it out of my own hands, 
delivered it myself that day. 

“That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, 
a man in a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, 
and softly followed my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, 
up-stairs. When my servant came into the room where I sat 
with my wife — 0 my wife, beloved of my heart ! My fair 
young English wife ! — we saw the man, who was supposed 
to be at the gate, standing silent behind him. 

“An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would 
not detain me, he had a coach in waiting. 

“It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When 
I was clear of the house, a black muffler was drawn tightly 
over my mouth from behind, and my arms were pinioned. 
The two brothers crossed the road from a dark corner, and 
identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from 
his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it 
in the light of a lantern that was held, and extinguished 
the ashes with his foot. Not a word was spoken. I was 
brought here, I was brought to my living grave. 

“ If it had pleased God to put it in the hard heart of either 
of the brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any 
tidings of my dearest wife — so much as to let me know by a 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


355 


word whether alive or dead — I might have thought that He 
had not quite abandoned them. But, now I believe that the 
mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that they have no 
part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to 
the last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy pris- 
oner, do this last night of the year 1767, in my unbearable 
agony, denounce to the times when all these things shall be 
answered for. I denounce them to Heaven and to earth.” 

A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document 
was done. A sound of craving and eagerness that had 
nothing articulate in it but blood. The narrative called up 
the most revengeful passions of the time, and there was not 
a head in the nation but must have dropped before it. 

Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, 
to show how the Defarges had not made the paper public, 
with the other captured Bastille memorials borne in proces- 
sion, and had kept it, biding their time. Little need to show 
that this detested family name had long been anathematised 
by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register. 
The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would 
have sustained him in that place that day, against such de- 
nunciation. 

And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer 
was a well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father 
of his wife. One of the frenzied aspirations of the populace 
was, for imitations of the questionable public virtues of an- 
tiquity, and for sacrifices and self-immolations on the people's 
altar. Therefore when the President said (else had his own 
head quivered on his shoulders), that the good physician of 
the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by 
rooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would 
doubtless feel a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter 
a widow and her child an orphan, there was wild excitement, 
patriotic fervour, not a touch of human sympathy. 

“Much influence around him, has that* Doctor ?” mur- 
mured Madame Defarge, smiling to The Vengeance. “Save 
him now, my Doctor, save him!” 


356 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


At every juryman’s vote, there was a roar. Another and 
another. Roar and roar. 

Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aris- 
tocrat, an enemy of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the 
People. Back to the Conciergerie, and Death within four- 
and-twenty hours ! 


CHAPTER XI 

DUSK 

The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed 
to die, fell under the sentence, as if she had been mortally 
stricken. But, she uttered no sound ; and so strong was the 
voice within her, representing that it was she of all the world 
who must uphold him in his misery and not augment it, 
that it quickly raised her, even from that shock. 

The Judges having to take part in a public demonstra- 
tion out of doors, the tribunal adjourned. The quick noise 
and movement of the court’s emptying itself by many pas- 
sages had not ceased, when Lucie stood stretching out her 
arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face but love 
and consolation. 

“If I might touch him! If I might embrace Rim once! 
0, good citizens, if you would have so much compassion for 
us !” 

There was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men 
who had taken him last night, and Barsad. The people had 
all poured out to the show in the streets. Barsad proposed 
to the rest, “ Let her embrace him then ; it is but a moment.” 
It was silently acquiesced in, and they passed her over the 
seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by leaning over 
the dock, could fold her in his arms. 

“Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing 
on my love. We shall meet again, where the weary are at 
rest !” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


357 


They were her husband’s words, as he held her to his bosom. 

“I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: 
don’t suffer for me. A parting blessing for our child.” 

“ I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell 
to her by you.” 

“ My husband. No ! A moment !” He was tearing him- 
self apart from her. “We shall not be separated long. I 
feel that this will break my heart by-and-bye ; but I will do 
my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God will raise up 
friends for her, as He did for me.” 

Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his 
knees to both of them, but that Darnay put out a hand and 
seized him, crying : 

“No, no ! What have you done, what have you done, that 
you should kneel to us ! We know now, what a struggle you 
made of old. We know now, what you underwent when 
you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We know 
now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, 
for her dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all 
our love and duty. Heaven be with you!” 

Her father’s only answer was to draw his hands through 
his white hair, and wring them with a shriek of anguish. 

“It could not be otherwise,” said the prisoner. “All 
things have worked together as they have fallen out. It was 
the always-vain endeavour to discharge my poor mother’s 
trust that first brought my fatal presence near you. Good 
could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in nature 
to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. 
Heaven bless you!” 

As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood 
looking after him with her hands touching one another in the 
attitude of prayer, and with a radiant look upon her face, in 
which there was even a comforting smile. As he went out 
at the prisoners’ door, she turned, laid her head lovingly on 
her father’s breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his feet. 

Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had 
never moved, Sydney Carton came and took her up. Only 


358 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


her father and Mr. Lorry were with her. His arm trembled 
as it raised her, and supported her head. Yet, there was an 
air about him that was not all of pity — that had a flush of 
pride in it. 

“ Shall I take her to a coach ? I shall never feel her weight.” 

He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly 
down in a coach. Her father and their old friend got into 
it, and he took his seat beside the driver. 

When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in 
the dark not many hours before, to picture to himself on which 
of the rough stones of the street her feet had trodden, he lifted 
her again, and carried her up the staircase to their rooms. 
There, he laid her down on a couch, where her child and Miss 
Pross wept over her. 

“Don’t recall her to herself,” he said, softly, to the latter, 
“she is better so. Don’t revive her to consciousness, while 
she only faints.” 

“Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!” cried little Lucie, 
springing up and throwing her arms passionately round him, 
in a burst of grief. “Now that you have come, I think you 
will do something to help mamma, something, to save papa ! 
O, look at her, dear Carton ! Can you, of all the people who 
love her, bear to see her so?” 

He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against 
his face. He put her gently from him, and looked at her un- 
conscious mother. 

“Before I go,” he said, and paused — “I may kiss her ?” 

It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and . 
touched her face with his lips, he murmured some words. 
The child, who was nearest to him, told them afterwards, 
and told her grandchildren when she was a handsome old 
lady, that she heard him say, “A life you love.”° 

When he had gone out into the next room, he turned 
suddenly on Mr. Lorry and her father, who were following, 
and said to the latter : 

“You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; 
let it at least be tried. These judges, and all the men in 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


359 


power, are very friendly to you, and very recognisant of your 
services; are they not?” 

“Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. 
I had the strongest assurances that I should save him ; and I 
did.” He returned the answer in great trouble, and very 
slowly. 

“Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow 
afternoon are few and short, but try.” 

“I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.” 

“That’s well. I have known such energy as yours do great 
things before now — though never,” he added, with a smile 
and a sigh together, “such great things as this. But try! 
Of little worth as life is when we misuse it, it is worth that 
effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it were not.” 

“I will go,” said Doctor Manette, “to the Prosecutor and 
the President straight, and I will go to others whom it is 
better not to name. I will write too, and — But stay ! 
There is a celebration in the streets, and no one will be acces- 
sible until dark.” 

“That’s true. Well ! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and 
not much the forlorner for being delayed till dark. I should 
like to know how you speed ; though, mind ! I expect nothing ! 
When are you likely to have seen these dread powers, Doctor 
Manette?” 

“Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour 
or two from this.” 

“ It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour 
or two. If I go to Mr. Lorry’s at nine, shall I hear what 
you have done, either from our friend or from yourself ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ May you prosper ! ” 

Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching 
him on the shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn. 

“I have no hope,” said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful 
whisper. 

“Nor have I.” 

“If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed 


360 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


to spare him — which is a large supposition ; for what is his 
life, or any man’s to them ! — I doubt if they durst spare him 
after the demonstration in the court.” 

“And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.” 

Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his 
face upon it. 

“Don’t despond,” said Carton, very gently; “don’t grieve. 
I encouraged Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that 
it might one day be consolatory to her. Otherwise, she might 
think ‘ his life was wantonly thrown away or wasted,’ and that 
might trouble her.” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, 
“you are right. But he will perish; there is no real hope.” 

“Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,” echoed 
Carton. And walked with a settled step, down-stairs. 


CHAPTER XII 

DARKNESS 

Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided 
where to go. “At Tellson’s banking-house at nine,” he said, 
with a musing face. “Shall I do. well, in the mean time, to 
show myself? I think so. It is best that these people 
should know there is such a man as I here ; it is a sound 
precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But 
care, care, care ! Let me think it out !” 

Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an 
object, he took a turn or two in the already darkening street, 
and traced the thought in his mind to its possible conse- 
quences. His first impression was confirmed. “It is best,” 
he said, finally resolved, “that these people should know 
there is such a man as I here.” And he turned his face 
towards Saint Antoine. 

Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


361 


a wine-shop in the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not diffi- 
cult for one who knew the city well, to find his house without 
asking any question. Having ascertained its situation, 
Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined at 
a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. 
For the first time in many years, he had no strong drink. 
Since last night he had taken nothing but a little light thin 
wine, and last night he had dropped the brandy slowly down 
on Mr. Lorry’s hearth like a man who had done with it. 

It was as late as seven o’clock when he awoke refreshed, 
and went out into the streets again. As he passed along 
towards Saint Antoine, he stopped at a shop-window where 
there was a mirror, and slightly altered the disordered arrange- 
ment of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and his wild 
hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge’s, and went in. 

There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques 
Three, of the restless fingers and the croaking voice. This 
man, whom he had seen upon the Jury, stood drinking at 
the little counter, in conversation with the Defarges, man and 
wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like a 
regular member of the establishment. 

As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very in- 
different French) for a small measure of wine, Madame 
Defarge cast a careless glance at him, and then a keener, and 
then a keener, and then advanced to him herself, and asked 
him what it was he had ordered. 

He repeated what he had already said. 

“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising 
her dark eyebrows. 

After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French 
word were slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his 
former strong foreign accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am 
English ! ” 

Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, 
and, as he took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore 
over it puzzling out its meaning, he heard her say, “I swear 
to you, like Evremonde !” 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening. 

“How?” 

“Good evening.” 

“Oh! Good evening, citizen,” filling his glass. “Ah! 
and good wine. I drink to the Republic.” 

Defarge went back to the counter, and said, “Certainly, a 
little like.” Madame sternly retorted, “I tell you a good 
deal like.” Jacques Three pacifically remarked, “He is so 
much in your mind, see you, madame.” The amiable Ven- 
geance added, with a laugh, “Yes, my faith! And you are 
looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once 
more to-morrow ! ” 

Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a 
slow forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They 
were all leaning their arms on the counter close together, 
speaking low. After a silence of a few moments, during which 
they all looked towards him without disturbing his outward 
attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed their con- 
versation. 

“It is true what madame says,” observed Jacques Three. 
“Why stop? There is great force in that. Why stop?” 

“Well, well,” reasoned Defarge, “but one must stop 
somewhere. After all, the question is still where?” 

“At extermination,” said madame. 

“Magnificent!” croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, 
also, highly approved. 

“Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,” said Defarge, 
rather troubled; “in general, I say nothing against it. But 
this Doctor has suffered much; you have seen him to-day; 
you have observed his face when the paper was read.” 

“I have observed his face !” repeated madame, contemp- 
tuously and angrily. “Yes. I have observed his face. I 
have observed his face to be not the face of a true friend of 
the Republic. Let him take care of his face !” 

“And you have observed, my wife,” said Defarge, in a 
deprecatory manner, “the anguish of his daughter, which 
must be a dreadful anguish to him!” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


363 


“I have observed his daughter,” repeated madame ; “yes, 
I have observed his daughter, more times than one. I have 
observed her to-day, and I have observed her other days. I 
have observed her in the court, and I have observed her in 

the street by the prison. Let me but lift my finger !” 

She seemed to raise it (the listener’s eyes were always on 
his paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before 
her, as if the axe had dropped. 

“The citizeness is superb!” croaked the Juryman. 

“ She is an Angel ! ” said The Vengeance, and embraced 
her. 

“As to thee,” pursued madame, implacably, addressing her 
husband, “if it depended on thee — which, happily, it does 
not — -thou wouldst rescue this man even now.” 

“No !” protested Defarge. “Not if to lift this glass would 
do it! But I would leave the matter there. I say, stop 
there.” 

“See you then, Jacques,” said Madame Defarge, wrath- 
fully ; “ and see you, too, my little Vengeance ; see you both ! 
Listen ! For other crimes as tyrants and oppressors, I have 
this race a long time on my register, doomed to destruction 
and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so.” 

“It is so,” assented Defarge, without being asked. 

“In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille 
falls, he finds this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and 
in the middle of the night when this place is clear and shut, 
we read it, here on this spot, by the light of this lamp. Ask 
him, is that so.” 

“It is so,” assented Defarge. 

“That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, 
and the lamp is burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above 
those shutters and between those iron bars, that I have now a 
secret to communicate. Ask him, is that so.” 

“It is so,” assented Defarge again. 

“I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom 
with these two hands as I smite it now, and I tell him, ‘ De- 
farge, I was brought up among the fishermen of the sea-shore, 


364 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


and that peasant family so injured by the two Evremonde 
brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my family. 
Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the 
ground was my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, 
that unborn child was their child, that brother was my brother, 
that father was my father, those dead are my dead, and that 
summons to answer for those things descends to me ! ' Ask 
him, is that so." 

“It is so," assented Defarge once more. 

“Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop," returned madame ; 
“but don't tell me." 

Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the 
deadly nature of her wrath — the listener could feel how 
white she was, without seeing her — and both highly com- 
mended it. Defarge, a weak minority, interposed a few words 
for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; 
but only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last re- 
ply. “Tell the Wind and the Fire where to stop ; not me ! " 

Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The 
English customer paid for what he had had, perplexedly 
counted his change, and asked, as a stranger, to be directed 
towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge took him to 
the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road. 
The English customer was not without his reflections then, 
that it might be a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and 
strike under it sharp and deep. 

But, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the 
shadow of the prison wall. At the appointed hour, he 
emerged from it to present himself in Mr. Lorry's room again, 
where he found the old gentleman walking to and fro in rest- 
less anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie until just now, 
and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and keep 
his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he 
quitted the banking-house towards four o'clock. She had 
some faint hopes that his mediation might save Charles, but 
they were very slight. He had been more than five hours 
gone : where could he be ? 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


365 


Mr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not 
returning, and he being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, 
it was arranged that he should go back to her, and come to 
the banking-house again at midnight. In the meanwhile, 
Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor. 

He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but 
Doctor Manette did not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, 
and found no tidings of him, and brought none. Where could 
he be? 

They were discussing this question, and were almost 
building up some weak structure of hope on his prolonged 
absence, when they heard him on the stairs. The instant 
he entered the room, it was plain that all was lost. 

Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had 
been all that time traversing the streets, was never known. 
As he stood staring at them, they asked him no question, 
for his face told them everything. 

“I cannot find it,” said he, “and I must have it. Where 
is it?” 

His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a 
helpless look straying all around, he took his coat off, and let 
it drop on the floor. 

“Where is my bench ? I have been looking everywhere for 
my bench, and I can't find it. What have they done with 
my work? Time presses: I must finish those shoes.” 

They looked at one another, and their hearts died within 
them. 

“Come, come!” said he, in a whimpering miserable way; 
“let me get to work. Give me my work.” 

Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet 
upon the ground, like a distracted child. 

“Don't torture a poor forlorn wretch,” he implored them, 
with a dreadful cry; “but give me my work! What is to 
become of us, if those shoes are not done to-night?” 

Lost, utterly lost ! 

It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try 
to restore him, — that — as if by agreement — they each 


366 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


put a hand upon his shoulder, and soothed him to sit down 
before the fire, with a promise that he should have his work 
presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the 
embers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since 
the garret time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. 
Lorry saw him shrink into the exact figure that Defarge had 
had in keeping. 

Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, 
by this spectacle of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such 
emotions. His lonely daughter, bereft of her final hope and 
reliance, appealed to them both too strongly. Again, as if 
by agreement, they looked at one another with one meaning 
in their faces. Carton was the first to speak : 

“The last chance is gone : it was not much. Yes; he had 
better be taken to her. But, before you go, will you, for a 
moment, steadily attend to me ? Don't ask me why I make 
the stipulations I am going to make, and exact the promise 
I am going to exact ; I have a reason — a good one." 

“I do not doubt it," answered Mr. Lorry. “Say on." 

The figure in the chair between them, was all the time 
monotonously rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They 
spoke in such a tone as they would have used if they had been 
watching by a sick-bed in the night. 

Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost 
entangling his feet. As he did so, a small case in which the 
Doctor was accustomed to carry the lists of his day's duties, 
fell lightly on the floor. Carton took it up, and there was 
a folded paper in it. “We should look at this!" he said. 
Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and exclaimed, 
“Thank God!" 

“What is it?" asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly. 

“A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First," 
he put his hand in his coat, and took another paper from it, 
“that is the certificate which enables me to pass out of this 
city. Look at it. You see — Sydney Carton, an Englishman ? " 

Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest 
face. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


367 


“Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-mor- 
row, you remember, and I had better not take it into the 
prison. ” 

“Why not?” 

“I don't know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this 
paper that Doctor Manette has carried about him. It is a 
similar certificate, enabling him and his daughter and her 
child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the frontier ! You 
see?” 

“Yes!” 

“Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution 
against evil, yesterday. When is it dated ? But no matter ; 
don't stay to look; put it up carefully with mine and your 
own. Now, observe ! I never doubted until within this 
hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It 
is good, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, 
I have reason to think, will be.” 

“They are not in danger?” 

“They are in great danger. They are in danger of denun- 
ciation by Madame Defarge. I know it from her own lips. 
I have overheard words of that woman's, to-night, which 
have presented their danger to me in strong colours. I 
have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He 
confirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the 
prison-wall, is under the control of the Defarges, and has been 
rehearsed by Madame Defarge as to his having seen Her” 
— he never mentioned Lucie's name — “making signs and 
signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that the pretence 
will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will in- 
volve her life — and perhaps her child's — and perhaps her 
father's — for both have been seen with her at that place. 
Don't look so horrified. You will save them all.” 

“Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?” 

“I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and 
it could depend on no better man. This new denunciation 
will certainly not take place until after to-morrow ; proba- 
bly not until two or three days afterwards; more probably 


368 


A TALK OF TWO CITIES 


a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to mourn 
for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She 
and her father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, 
and this woman (the inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be 
described) would wait to add that strength to her case, and 
make herself doubly sure. You follow me?” 

“So attentively, and with so much confidence in what 
you say, that for the moment I lose sight,” touching the back 
of the Doctor’s chair, “even of this distress.” 

“You have money, and can buy the means of travelling 
to the sea-coast as quickly as the journey can be made. 
Your preparations have been completed for some days, to 
return to England. Early to-morrow have your horses 
ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o’clock 
in the afternoon.” 

“It shall be done !” 

His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry 
caught the flame, and was as quick as youth. 

“You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend 
upon no better man? Tell her, to-night, what you know of 
her danger as involving her child and her father. Dwell 
upon that, for she would lay her own fair head beside her 
husband’s cheerfully.” He faltered for an instant ; then went 
on as before. “For the sake of her child and her father, 
press upon her the necessity of leaving Paris, with them and 
you, at that hour. Tell her that it was her husband’s last 
arrangement. Tell her that more depends upon it than she 
dare believe, or hope. You think that her father, even in this 
sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not?” 

“I am sure of it.” 

“I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these ar- 
rangements made in the courtyard here, even to the taking 
of your own seat in the carriage. The moment I come to 
you, take me in, and drive away.” 

“I understand that I wait for you under all circum- 
stances?” 

“You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


369 


know, and will reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to 
have my place occupied, and then for England ! ” 

“Why, then,” said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so 
firm and steady hand, “it does not all depend on one old 
man, but I shall have a young and ardent man at my side.” 

“ By the help of Heaven you shall ! Promise me solemnly 
that nothing will influence you to alter the course on which 
we now stand pledged to one another.” 

“Nothing, Carton.” 

“ Remember these words to-morrow : change the course, or 
delay in it — for any reason — and no life can possibly be 
saved, and many lives must inevitably be sacrificed.” 

“I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.” 

“ And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye ! ” 

Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and 
though he even put the old man's hand to his lips, he did not 
part from him then. He helped him so far to arouse the 
rocking figure before the dying embers, as to get a cloak and 
hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find where the 
bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought 
to have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to 
the courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart — so 
happy in the memorable time when he had revealed his own 
desolate heart to it — outwatched the awful night. He 
entered the courtyard and remained therefor a few moments 
alone, looking up at the light in the window of her room. 
Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, 
and a Farewell. 


CHAPTER XIII 

FIFTY-TWO 

In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of 
the day awaited their fate. They were in number as the 
weeks of the year. Fifty-two were to roll that afternoon on 

2 B 


370 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


the life-tide of the city to the boundless everlasting sea. 
Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants were 
appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled 
yesterday, the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-mor- 
row was already set apart. 

Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer- 
general of seventy, whose riches could not buy his life, to the 
seamstress of twenty, whose poverty and obscurity could not 
save her. Physical diseases, engendered in the vices and 
neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees ; and the 
frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering, in- 
tolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally 
without distinction. 

Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with 
no flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. 
In every line of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his 
condemnation. He had fully comprehended that no per- 
sonal influence could possibly save him, that he was virtually 
sentenced by the millions, and that units could avail him 
nothing. 

Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved 
wife fresh before him, to compose his mind to what it must 
bear. His hold on life was strong, and it was very, very 
hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts and degrees unclosed 
a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and when he 
brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded, 
this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his 
thoughts, a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that 
contended against resignation. If, for a moment, he did 
feel resigned, then his wife and child who had to live after 
him, seemed to protest and to make it a selfish thing. 

But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration 
that there was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that 
numbers went the same road wrongfully, and trod it firmly 
every day, sprang up to stimulate him. Next followed the 
thought that much of the future' peace of mind enjoyable 
by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So, by 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


371 


degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise 
his thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down. 

Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, 
he had travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed t,o 
purchase the means of writing, and a light, he sat down to 
write until such time as the prison lamps should be extin- 
guished. 

He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had 
known nothing of her fathers imprisonment, until he had 
heard of it from herself, and that he had been as ignorant as 
she of his father’s and uncle’s responsibility for that misery, 
until the paper had been read. He had already explained 
to her that his concealment from herself of the name he had 
relinquished, was the one condition — fully intelligible now 
— that her father had attached to their betrothal, and was 
the one promise he had still exacted on the morning of their 
marriage. He entreated her, for her father’s sake, never to 
seek to know whether her father had become oblivious of 
the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled to him (for 
the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on that 
old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If 
he had preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could 
be no doubt that he had supposed it destroyed with the Bas- 
tille, when he had found no mention of it among the relics 
of prisoners which the populace had discovered there, and 
which had been described to all the world. He besought 
her — though he added that he knew it was needless — to 
console her father, by impressing him through every tender 
means she could think of, with the truth that he had done 
nothing for which he could justly reproach himself, but had 
uniformly forgotten himself for their joint sakes. Next to 
her preservation of his own last grateful love and blessing, and 
her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their dear 
child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to 
comfort her father. 

To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, 
he told her father that he expressly confided his wife and child 


372 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


to his care. And he told him this, very strongly, with the 
hope of rousing him from any despondency or dangerous 
retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be tending. 

To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his 
worldly affairs. That done, with many added sentences of 
grateful friendship and warm attachment, all was done. He 
never thought of Carton. His mind was so full of the others^ 
that he never once thought of him. 

He had time to finish these letters before the lights were 
put out. When he lay down on his straw bed, he thought 
he had done with this world. 

But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself 
in shining forms. Free and happy, back in the old house 
in Soho (though it had nothing in it like the real house), un- 
accountably released and light of heart, he was with Lucie 
again, and she told him it was all a dream, and he had never 
gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even 
suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and 
yet there was no difference in him. Another pause of obliv- 
ion, and he awoke in the sombre morning, unconscious 
where he was or what had happened, until it flashed upon 
his mind, “this is the day of my death!” 

Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the 
fifty-two heads were to fall. And now, while he was com- 
posed, and hoped that he could meet the end with quiet 
heroism, a new action began in his waking thoughts, which 
was very difficult to master. 

He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate 
his life. How high it was from the ground, how many steps 
it had, where he would be stood, how he would be touched, 
whether the touching hands would be dyed red, which way 
his face would be turned, whether he would be the first, or 
might be the last : these and many similar questions, in no- 
wise directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over 
again, countless times. Neither were they connected with 
fear: he was conscious of no fear. Rather, they originated 
in a strange besetting desire to know what to do when the 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


373 


time came ; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the few 
swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was 
more like the wondering of some other spirit within his, than 
his own. 

The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks 
struck the numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone 
for ever, ten gone for ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve 
coming on to pass away. After a hard contest with that 
eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed him, 
he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly 
repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife 
was over. He could walk up and down, free from distracting 
fancies, praying for himself and for them. 

Twelve gone for ever. 

He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and 
he knew he would be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch 
as the tumbrils jolted heavily and slowly through the streets. 
Therefore, he resolved to keep Two before his mind, as the 
hour, and so to strengthen himself in the interval that he 
might be able, after that time, to strengthen others. 

Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his 
breast, a very different man from the prisoner, who had 
walked to and fro at La Force, he heard One struck away 
from him, without surprise. The hour had measured like 
most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his 
recovered self-possession, he thought, “ There is but another 
now/’ and turned to walk again. 

Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He 
stopped. 

The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door 
was opened, or as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in 
English: “He has never seen me here; I have kept out of 
his way. Go you in alone ; I wait near. Lose no time ! ” 

The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood 
before him face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the 
light of a smile on his features, and a cautionary finger on his 
lip, Sydney Carton. 


374 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


There was something so bright and remarkable in his 
look, that, for the first moment, the prisoner misdoubted 
him to be an apparition of his own imagining. But, he 
spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner’s hand, 
and it was his real grasp. 

“Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see 
me ? ” he said. 

“I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe 
it now. You are not” — the apprehension came suddenly 
into his mind — “a prisoner?” 

“No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one 
of the keepers here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I 
come from her — your wife, dear Darnay.” 

The prisoner wrung his hand. 

“I bring you a request from her.” 

“What is it?” 

“A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, ad- 
dressed to you in the most pathetic tones of the voice so 
dear to you, that you well remember.” 

The prisoner turned his face partly aside. 

“You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it 
means; I have no time to tell you. You must comply with 
it — take off those boots you wear, and draw on these of 
mine.” 

There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the 
prisoner. Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the 
speed of lightning, got him down into it, and stood over 
him, barefoot. 

“Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; 
put your will to them. Quick ! ” 

“Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never 
can be done. You will only die with me. It is 
madness.” 

“ It would be madness if I asked you to escape ; but do I ? 
When I ask you to pass out at that door, tell me it is mad- 
ness and remain here. Change that cravat for this of mine, 
that coat for this of mine. While you do it, let me take 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


375 


this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like this 
of mine!” 

With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of 
will and action, that appeared quite supernatural, he forced 
all these changes upon him. The prisoner was like a young 
child in his hands. 

“Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be 
accomplished, it never can be done, it has been attempted, 
and has always failed. I implore you not to add your death 
to the bitterness of mine.” 

“Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When 
I ask that, refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on 
this table. Is your hand steady enough to write?” 

“It was when you came in.” 

“Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, 
friend, quick!” 

Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down 
at the table. Carton, with his right hand in his breast, 
stood close beside him. 

“Write exactly as I speak.” 

“To whom do I address it?” 

“To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast. 

“Do I date it?” 

“No.” 

The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, stand- 
ing over him with his hand in his breast, looked down. 

“‘If you remember/” said Carton, dictating, ‘“the 
words that passed between us, long ago, you will readily 
comprehend this when you see it. You do remember them, 
I know. It is not in your nature to forget them/ ” 

He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner 
chancing to look up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the 
hand stopped, closing upon something. 

“ Have you written ‘ forget them ' ? ” Carton asked. 

“I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?” 

“No; I am not armed.” 

“What is it in your hand?” 


376 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a 
few words more.” He dictated again. “‘I am thankful 
that the time has come, when I can prove them. That I 
do so is no subject for regret or grief.’” As he said these 
words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and 
softly moved down close to the writer’s face. 

The pen dropped from Darnay’s fingers on the table, and 
he looked about him vacantly. 

“What vapour is that?” he asked. 

“Vapour?” 

“Something that crossed me?” 

“I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. 
Take up the pen and finish. Hurry, hurry!” 

As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disor- 
dered, the prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As 
he looked at Carton with clouded eyes and with an altered 
manner of breathing, Carton — his hand again in his breast 
— looked steadily at him. 

“Hurry, hurry!” 

The prisoner bent over the paper, once more. 

“‘If it had been otherwise;’” Carton’s hand was again 
watchfully and softly stealing down; “'I never should have 
used the longer opportunity. If it had been otherwise;’” 
the hand was at the prisoner’s face ; “ ‘ I should but have 
had so much the more to answer for. If it had been other- 
wise ’ ” Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing 

off into unintelligible signs. 

Carton’s hand moved back to his breast no more. The 
prisoner sprang up with a reproachful look, but Carton’s 
hand was close and firm at his nostrils, and Carton’s left arm 
caught him round the waist. For a few seconds he faintly 
struggled with the man who had come to lay down his life 
for him ; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insen- 
sible on the ground. 

Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart 
was, Carton dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner 
had laid aside, combed back his hair, and tied it with the 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


377 


ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he softly called, 
“Enter there! Come in ! ^ and the Spy presented himself. 

“You see ?” said Carton, looking up, -as he kneeled on one 
knee beside the insensible figure, putting the paper in the 
breast: “is your hazard very great ?” 

“Mr. Carton,” the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his 
fingers, “my hazard is not that , in the thick of business here, 
if you are true to the whole of your bargain.” 

“Don’t fear me. I will be true to the death.” 

“You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be 
right. Being made right by you in that dress, I shall have no 
fear.” 

“ Have no fear ! I shall soon be out of the way of harming 
you, and the rest will soon be far from here, please God ! 
Now, get assistance and take me to the coach.” 

“You?” said the Spy nervously. 

“Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out 
at the gate by which you brought me in?” 

“Of course.” 

“I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I 
am fainter now you take me out. The parting interview 
has overpowered me. Such a thing has happened here, 
often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands. Quick! 
Call assistance ! ” 

“You swear not to betray me?” said the trembling Spy, 
as he paused for a last moment. 

“Man, man!” returned Carton, stamping his foot; “have 
I sworn by no solemn vow already, to go through with this, 
that you waste the precious moments now? Take him your- 
self to the courtyard you know of, place him yourself in the 
carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him yourself 
to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words 
of last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away ! ” 

The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, 
resting his forehead on his hands. The Spy returned im- 
mediately, with two men. 

“How, then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen 


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figure. “So afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a 
prize in the lottery of Sainte Guillotine ?” 

“A good patriot,” said the other, “ could hardly have been 
more afflicted if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.” 

They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter 
they had brought to the door, and bent to carry it away. 

“The time is short, Evremonde,” said the Spy, in a warn- 
ing voice. 

“I know it well,” answered Carton. “Be careful of my 
friend, I entreat you, and leave me.” 

“Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “Lift him, and 
come away!” 

The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining 
his powers of listening to the utmost, he listened for any 
sound that might denote suspicion or alarm. There was none. 
Keys turned, doors clashed, footsteps passed along distant 
passages : no cry was raised, or hurry made, that seemed 
unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he sat 
down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck 
Two. 

Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their 
meaning, then began to be audible. Several doors were 
opened in succession, and finally his own. A gaoler, with 
a list in his hand, looked in, merely saying, “ Follow me, 
Evremonde!” and he followed into a large dark room, at a 
distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shad- 
ows within, and what with the shadows without, he could 
but dimly discern the others who were brought there to have 
their arms bound. Some were standing ; some seated. 
Some were lamenting, and in restless motion; but, these 
were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking 
fixedly at the ground. 

As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the 
fifty-two were brought in after him, one man stopped in 
passing, to embrace him, as having a knowledge of him. It 
thrilled him with a great dread of discovery; but the man 
went on. A very few moments after that, a young woman, 


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379 


with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there 
was no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient 
eyes, rose from the seat where he had observed her sitting, 
and came to speak to him. 

“ Citizen Evremonde,” she said, touching him with her 
cold hand. “ I am a poor little seamstress, who was with you 
in La Force.” 

He murmured for answer: “True. I forget what you 
were accused of?” 

“Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am inno- 
cent of any. Is it likely ? Who would think of plotting with 
a poor little weak creature like me?” 

The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, 
that tears started from his eyes. 

“I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have 
done nothing. I am not unwilling to die, if the Republic 
which is to do so much good to us poor, will profit by my 
death; but I do not know how that can be, Citizen Evre- 
monde. Such a poor weak little creature ! ” 

As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and 
soften to, it warmed and softened to this pitiable girl. 

“I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped 
it was true?” 

“It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.” 

“If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you 
let me hold your hand ? I am not afraid, but I am little and 
weak, and it will give me more courage.” 

As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden 
doubt in them, and then astonishment. He pressed the 
work-worn, hunger-worn young fingers, and touched his lips. 

“Are you dying for him?” she whispered. 

“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.” 

“O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?” 

“Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.” 

The same shadow's that are falling on the prison, are falling, 
in that same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with 


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A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


the crowd about it, when a coach going out of Paris drives 
up to be examined. 

“Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!” 

The papers are handed out, and read. 

“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?” 

This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wan- 
dering old man pointed out. 

“Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? 
The Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?” 

Greatly too much for him. 

“ Hah ! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. 
French. Which is she?” 

This is she. 

“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; 
is it not?” 

It is. 

“ Hah ! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, 
her child. English. This is she?” 

She and no other. 

“Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed 
a good Republican ; something new in thy family ; remem- 
ber it ! Sydney Carton. Advocate. English. Which is he?” 

He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is 
pointed out. 

“Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?” 

It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is repre- 
sented that he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly 
from a friend who is under the displeasure of the Republic. 

“Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are 
under the displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at 
the little window. Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which 
is he ? ” 

“I am he. Necessarily, being the last.” 

It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous 
questions. It is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands 
with his hand on the coach-door, replying to a group of 
officials. They leisurely walk round the carriage and lei- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


381 


surely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it carries 
on the roof ; the country-people hanging about, press nearer 
to the coach-doors and greedily stare in ; a little child, carried 
by its mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may 
touch the wife of an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine. 

“Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.” 

“One can depart, citizen?” 

“One can depart. Forward, my postilions ! A good jour- 
ney ! ” 

“I salute you, citizens. — And the first danger passed!” 

These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his 
hands, and looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, 
there is weeping, there is the heavy breathing of the insen- 
sible traveller. 

“Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced 
to go faster?” asks Lucie, clinging to the old man. 

“It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge 
them too much; it would rouse suspicion.” 

“ Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued ! ” 

“The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pur- 
sued.” 

Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, 
ruinous buildings, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open 
country, avenues of leafless trees. The hard uneven pave- 
ment is under us, the soft deep mud is on either side. Some- 
times, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the stones 
that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts 
and sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so 
great, that in our wild alarm and hurry we are for getting 
out and running — hiding — doing anything but stopping. 

Out of the open country, in again among ruinous build- 
ings, solitary farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, 
cottages in twos and threes, avenues of leafless trees. Have 
these men deceived us, and taken us back by another road ? 
Is not this the same place twice over ? Thank Heaven, no. 
A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued ( 
Hush ! the posting-house. 


382 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the 
coach stands in the little street, bereft of horses, and with no 
likelihood upon it of ever moving again ; leisurely, the new 
horses come into visible existence, one by one; leisurely, 
the new postilions follow, sucking and plaiting the lashes of 
their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count their money, 
make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results. 
All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate 
that would far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses 
ever foaled. 

At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the 
old are left behind. We are through the village, up the hill, 
and down the hill, and on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, 
the postilions exchange speech with animated gesticulation, 
and the horses are pulled up, almost on their haunches. We 
are pursued? 

“Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!” 

“What is it?” asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window. 

“How many did they say?” 

“I do not understand you.” 

“ — At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to- 
day?” 

“Fifty-two.” 

“ I said so ! A brave number ! My fellow-citizen here 
would have it forty-two ; ten more heads are worth having. 
The Guillotine goes handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. 
Whoop!” 

The night comes on dark. He moves more ; he is begin- 
ning to revive, and to speak intelligibly ; he thinks they are 
still together ; he asks him, by his name, what he has in his 
hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help us! Look out, 
look out, and see if we are pursued. 

The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying 
after us, and the moon is plunging after us, and the whole 
wild night is in pursuit of us ; but, so far, we are pursued by 
nothing else. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


383 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE KNITTING DONE 

In that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited 
their fate Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council with 
The Vengeance and Jacques Three of the Revolutionary 
Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame Defarge confer with 
these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer, erst a 
mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate 
in the conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer 
satellite who was not to speak until required, or to offer an 
opinion until invited. 

“But our Defarge,” said Jacques Three, “is undoubtedly 
a good Republican? Eh?” 

“There is no better,” the voluble Vengeance protested in 
her shrill notes, “in France.” 

“Peace, little Vengeance,” said Madame Defarge, laying 
her hand with a slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, “hear 
me speak. My husband, fellow-citizen, is a good Republican 
and a bold man; he has deserved well of the Republic, and 
possesses its confidence. But my husband has his weak- 
nesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.” 

“It is a great pity,” croaked Jacques Three, dubiously 
shaking his head, with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth ; 
“it is not quite like a good citizen; it is a thing to regret.” 

“See you,” said madame, “ I care nothing for this Doctor, 
I. He may wear his head or lose it, for any interest I have 
in him ; it is all one to me. But, the Evremonde people are 
to be exterminated, and the wife and child must follow the 
husband and father.” 

“She has a fine head for it,” croaked Jacques Three. “I 
have seen blue eyes and golden hair there, and they looked 
charming when Samson held them up.” Ogre that he was, 
he spoke like an epicure. 

Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little. 


384 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“The child also,” observed Jacques Three, with a medita- 
tive enjoyment of his words, “has golden hair and blue eyes. 
And we seldom have a child there. It is a pretty sight ! ” 

“In a word,” said Madame Defarge, coming out of her 
short abstraction, “ I cannot trust my husband in this matter. 
Not only do I feel, since last night, that I dare not confide 
to him the details of my projects; but also I feel that if I 
delay, there is danger of his giving warning, and then they 
might escape.” 

“That must never be,” croaked Jacques Three; “no one 
must escape. We have not half enough as it is. We ought 
to have six score a day.” 

“In a word,” Madame Defarge went on, “my husband 
has not my reason for pursuing this family to annihilation, 
and I have not his reason for regarding this Doctor with any 
sensibility. I must act for myself, therefore. Come hither, 
little citizen.” 

The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and him- 
self in the submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his 
hand to his red cap. 

“Touching those signals, little citizen,” said Madame 
Defarge, sternly, “that she made to the prisoners; you are 
ready to bear witness to them this very day?” 

“Ay, ay, why not!” cried the sawyer. “Every day, in 
all weathers, from two to four, always signalling, sometimes 
with the little one, sometimes without. I know what I 
know. I have seen with my eyes.” 

He made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in 
incidental imitation of some few of the great diversity of 
signals that he had never seen. 

“Clearly plots,” said Jacques Three. “Transparently!” 

“There is no doubt of the Jury?” inquired Madame 
Defarge, letting her eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile. 

“Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer 
for my fellow- Jurymen.” 

“Now, let me see,” said Madame Defarge, pondering 
again. “Yet once more! Can I spare this Doctor to my 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


385 


husband ? I have no feeling either way. Can I spare 
him ?” 

“He would count as one head,” observed Jacques Three, 
in a low voice. “ We really have not heads enough ; it would 
be a pity, I think.” 

“He was signalling with her when I saw her,” argued 
Madame Defarge ; “ I cannot speak of one without the other ; 
and I must not be silent, and trust the case wholly to him, 
this little citizen here. For, I am not a bad witness.” 

The Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other 
in their fervent protestations that she was the most admirable 
and marvellous of witnesses. The little citizen, not to be 
outdone, declared her to be a celestial witness. 

“He must take his chance,” said Madame Defarge. “No, 
I cannot spare him! You are engaged at three o'clock; 
you are going to see the batch of to-day executed. — You?” 

The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who 
hurriedly replied in the affirmative : seizing the occasion to 
add that he was the most ardent of Republicans, and that he 
would be in effect the most desolate of Republicans, if any- 
thing prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of smoking 
his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national 
barber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might 
have been suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that 
looked contemptuously at him out of Madame Defarge's 
head) of having his small individual fears for his own personal 
safety, every hour in the day. 

“ I,” said madame, “ am equally engaged at the same place. 
After it is over — say at eight to-night — come you to me, 
in Saint Antoine, and we will give information against these 
people at my Section.” 

The wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to 
attend the citizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he 
became embarrassed, evaded her glance as a small dog would 
have done, retreated among his wood, and hid his confusion 
over the handle of his saw. 

Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Ven- 
2 c 


386 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


geance a little nearer to the door, and there expounded her 
further views to them thus : 

“She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his 
death. She will be mourning and grieving. She will be in a 
state of mind to impeach the justice of the Republic. She 
will be full of sympathy with its enemies. I will go to her.” 

“What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman !” 
exclaimed Jacques Three, rapturously. “ Ah, my cherished ! ” 
cried The Vengeance; and embraced her. 

“Take you my knitting,” said Madame Defarge, placing 
it in her lieutenant's hands, “and have it ready for me in my 
usual seat. Keep me my usual chair. Go you there, straight, 
for there will probably be a greater concourse than usual, 
to-day.” 

“I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,” said The Ven- 
geance with alacrity, and kissing her cheek. “You will not 
be late?” 

“I shall be there before the commencement.” 

“And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, 
my soul,” said The Vengeance, calling after her, for she had 
already turned into the street, “before the tumbrils arrive !” 

Madame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that 
she heard, and might be relied upon to arrive in good time, 
and so went through the mud, and round the corner of the 
prison wall. The Vengeance and the Juryman, looking after 
her as she walked away, were highly appreciative of her fine 
figure, and her superb moral endowments. 

There were many women at that time, upon whom the 
time laid a dreadfully disfiguring hand ; but, there was not 
one among them more to be dreaded than this ruthless 
woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a strong 
and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of 
great determination, of that kind of beauty which not only 
seems to impart to its possessor firmness and animosity, but 
to strike into others an instinctive recognition of those 
qualities; the troubled time would have heaved her up, 
under any circumstances. But, imbued from her child- 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


387 


hood with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate ha- 
tred of a class, opportunity had developed her into a tigress. 
She was absolutely without pity. If she had ever had the 
virtue in her, it had quite gone out of her. 

It was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die 
for the sins of his forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. 
It was nothing to her, that his wife was to be made a widow 
and his daughter an orphan; that was insufficient punish- 
ment, because they were her natural enemies and her prey, 
and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was 
made hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. 
If she had been laid low in the streets, in any of the many 
encounters in which she had been engaged, she would not 
have pitied herself ; nor, if she had been ordered to the axe 
to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any softer feeling 
than a fierce desire to change places with the man who sent 
her there. 

Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough 
robe. Carelessly worn, it was a becoming robe enough, in 
a certain weird way, and her dark hair looked rich under her 
coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her bosom, was a loaded 
pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened dagger. 
Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such 
a character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had 
habitually walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, 
on the brown sea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along 
the streets. 

Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very 
moment waiting for the completion of its load, had been 
planned out last night, the difficulty of taking Miss Pross 
in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry’s attention. It was not 
merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach, but it was 
of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining 
it and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; 
since their escape might depend on the saving of only a few 
seconds here and there. Finally, he had proposed, after 
anxious consideration, that Miss Pross and Jerry, who were 


388 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at three o’clock 
in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period. 
Unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the 
coach, and, passing it and preceding it on the road, would 
order its horses in advance, and greatly facilitate its progress 
during the precious hours of the night, when delay was the 
most to be dreaded. 

Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real ser- 
vice in that pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. 
She and Jerry had beheld the coach start, had known who 
it was that Solomon brought, had passed some ten minutes 
in tortures of suspense, and were.now concluding their ar- 
rangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge, 
taking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and 
nearer to the else-deserted lodging in which they held their 
consultation. 

“Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, 
whose agitation was so great that she could hardly speak, 
or stand, or move, or live : “ what do you think of our not 
starting from this courtyard? Another carriage having al- 
ready gone from here to-day, it might awaken suspicion.” 

“My opinion, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “is as you’re 
right. Likewise wot I’ll stand by you, right or wrong.” 

“I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious 
creatures,” said Miss Pross, wildly crying, “that I am inca- 
pable of forming any plan. Are you capable of forming any 
plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?” 

“Respectin’ a future spear o’ life, miss,” returned Mr. 
Cruncher, “I hope so. Respectin’ any present use o’ this 
here blessed old head o’ mine, I think not. Would you do 
me the favour, miss, to take notice o’ two promises and wows 
wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here crisis ?” 

“ Oh, for gracious sake ! ” cried Miss Pross, still wildly 
crying, “record them at once, and get them out of the way, 
like an excellent man.” 

“First,” said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and 
who spoke with an ashy and solemn visage, “them poor 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


389 


things well out o’ this, never no more will I do it, never no 
more ! ” 

“I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,” returned Miss Pross, 
“that you never will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg 
you not to think it necessary to mention more particularly 
what it is.” 

“No, miss,” returned Jerry, “it shall not be named to you. 
Second : them poor things well out o’ this, and never no more 
will I interfere with Mrs. Cruncher’s flopping, never no more ! ” 

“Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,” 
said Miss Pross, striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, 
“I have no doubt it is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have 
it entirely under her own superintendence. — O my poor 
darlings !” 

“I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,” proceeded Mr. 
Cruncher, with a most alarming tendency to hold forth as 
from a pulpit — ‘ 1 and let my words be took down and took to 
Mrs. Cruncher through yourself — that wot my opinions 
respectin’ flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I 
only hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flop- 
ping at the present time.” 

“There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,” 
cried the distracted Miss Pross, “and I hope she finds it 
answering her expectations.” 

“Forbid it,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional 
solemnity, additional slowness, and additional tendency 
to hold forth and hold out, “as anything wot I have ever said 
or done should be wisited on my earnest wishes for them poor 
creeturs now ! Forbid it as we shouldn’t all flop (if it was 
anyways conwenient) to get ’em out o’ this here dismal risk ! 
Forbid it, miss ! Wot I say, for — bid it ! ” This was Mr. 
Cruncher’s conclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour 
to find a better one. 

And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the 
streets, came nearer and nearer. 

“If we ever get back to our native land,” said Miss Pross, 
“you may rely upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I 


390 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


may be able to remember and understand of what you have 
so impressively said ; and at all events you may be sure that 
I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in earnest at 
this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed 
Mr. Cruncher, let us think !” 

Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, 
came nearer and nearer. 

“If you were to go before,” said Miss Pross, “and stop 
the vehicle and horses from coming here, and were to wait 
somewhere for me ; wouldn’t that be best ? ” 

Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best. 

“Where could you wait for me?” asked Miss Pross. 

Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no 
locality but Temple Bar. Alas ! Temple Bar was hundreds 
of miles away, and Madame Defarge was drawing very near 
indeed. 

“By the cathedral door,” said Miss Pross. “Would it 
be much out of the way, to take me in, near the great cathe- 
dral door between the two towers?” 

“No, miss,” answered Mr. Cruncher. 

“Then, like the best of men,” said Miss Pross, “go to the 
posting-house straight, and make that change.” 

“I am doubtful,” said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and 
shaking his head, “ about leaving of you, you see. We don’t 
know what may happen.” 

“Heaven knows we don’t,” returned Miss Pross, “but 
have no fear for me. Take me in at the cathedral, at Three 
o’Clock, or as near it as you can, and I am sure it will be better 
than our going from here. I feel certain of it. There! 
Bless you, Mr. Cruncher ! Think — not of me, but of the 
lives that may depend on both of us ! ” 

This exordium, and Miss Pross ’s two hands in quite agonised 
entreaty clasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an en- 
couraging nod or two, he immediately went out to alter the 
arrangements, and left her by herself to follow as she had 
proposed. 

The having originated a precaution which was already in 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


391 


course of execution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The 
necessity of composing her appearance so that it should 
attract no special notice in the streets, was another relief. 
She looked at her watch, and it was twenty minutes past two. 
She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once. 

Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of 
the deserted rooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from 
behind every open door in them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold 
water and began laving her eyes, which were swollen and 
red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she could not 
bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the 
dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to 
see that there was no one watching her. In one of those 
pauses she recoiled and cried out, for she saw a figure standing 
in the room. 

The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed 
to the feet of Madame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and 
through much staining blood, those feet had come to meet that 
water. 

Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, “The 
wife of Evremonde; where is she?” 

It flashed upon Miss Pross's mind that the doors were 
all standing open, and would suggest the flight. Her first 
act was to shut them. There were four in the room, and she 
shut them all. She then placed herself before the door of 
the chamber which Lucie had occupied. 

Madame Defarge’s dark eyes followed her through this 
rapid movement, and rested on her when it was finished. 
Miss Pross had nothing beautiful about her; years had not 
tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness, of her appear- 
ance ; but, she too was a determined woman in her different 
way, and she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, 
every inch. 

“ You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” 
said Miss Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall 
not get the better of me. I am an Englishwoman.” 

Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with 


392 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


something of Miss Pross ’s own perception that they two were 
at bay. She saw a tight, hard, wiry woman before her, 
as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a woman with a 
strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that 
Miss Pross was the family’s devoted friend ; Miss Pross knew 
full well that Madame Defarge was the family’s malevolent 
enemy. 

“On my way yonder,” said Madame Defarge, with a 
slight movement of her hand towards the fatal spot, “where 
they reserve my chair and my knitting for me, I am come 
to make my compliments to her in passing. I wish to see 
her.” 

“I know that your intentions are evil,” said Miss Pross, 
“and you may depend upon it, I’ll hold my own against 
them.” 

Each spoke in her own language; neither understood the 
other’s words; both were very watchful, and intent to de- 
duce from look and manner, what the unintelligible words 
meant. 

“It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me 
at this moment,” said Madame Defarge. “Good patriots 
will know what that means. Let me see her. Go tell her 
that I wish to see her. Do you hear?” 

“If those eyes of yours were bed- winches,” returned Miss 
Pross, “and I was an English four-poster, they shouldn’t 
loose a splinter of me. No, you wicked foreign woman; I 
am your match.” 

Madame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic 
remarks in detail ; but, she so far understood them as to per- 
ceive that she was set at naught. 

“Woman imbecile and pig-like!” said Madame Defarge, 
frowning. “I take no answer from you. I demand to see 
her. Either tell her that I demand to see her, or stand out 
of the way of the door and let me go to her ! ” This, with an 
angry explanatory wave of her right arm. 

“I little thought,” said Miss Pross, “that I should ever 
want to understand your nonsensical language ; but I would 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


393 


give all I have, except the clothes I wear, to know whether 
you suspect the truth, or any part of it.” 

Neither of them for a single moment released the other’s 
eyes. Madame Defarge had not moved from the spot 
where she stood when Miss Pross first became aware of her; 
but, she now advanced one step. 

“I am a Briton,” said Miss Pross, “I am desperate. I 
don’t care an English Twopence for myself. I know that the 
longer I keep you here, the greater hope there is for my 
Ladybird. I’ll not leave a handful of that dark hair upon 
your head, if you lay a finger on me ! ” 

Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of 
her eyes between every rapid sentence, and every rapid 
sentence a whole breath. Thus Miss Pross, who had never 
struck a blow in her life. 

But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it 
brought the irrepressible tears into her eyes.. This was a 
courage that Madame Defarge so little comprehended as to 
mistake for weakness. “Ha, ha!” she laughed, “you poor 
wretch ! What are you worth ! I address myself to that 
Doctor.” Then she raised her voice and called out, “Citizen 
Doctor ! Wife of Evremonde ! Child of Evremonde ! Any 
person but this miserable fool, answer the Citizeness 
Defarge ! ” 

Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent dis- 
closure in the expression of Miss Pross’s fate, perhaps a sudden 
misgiving apart from either suggestion, whispered to Madame 
Defarge that they were gone. Three of the doors she opened 
swiftly, and looked in. 

“Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried 
packing, there are odds and ends upon the ground. There 
is no one in that room behind you ! Let me look.” 

“ Never ! ” said Miss Pross, who understood the request 
as perfectly as Madame Defarge understood the answer. 

“If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be 
pursued and brought back,” said Madame Defarge to herself. 

“ As long as you don’t know whether they are in that room 


394 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


or not, you are uncertain what to do,” said Miss Pross to her - 
self ; “ and you shall not know that, if I can prevent your 
knowing it ; and know that, or not know that, you shall not 
leave here while I can hold you.” 

“I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has 
stopped me, I will tear you to pieces, but I will have you from 
that door,” said Madame Defarge. 

“We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary 
courtyard, we are not likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily 
strength to keep you here, while every minute you are here 
is worth a hundred thousand guineas to my darling,” said 
Miss Pross. 

Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the 
instinct of the moment, seized her round the waist in both her 
arms, and held her tight. It was in vain for Madame De- 
farge to struggle and to strike ; Miss Pross, with the vigorous 
tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate, clasped 
her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle 
that they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buf- 
feted and tore her face ; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, 
held her round the waist, and clung to her with more than the 
hold of a drowning woman. 

Soon, Madame Defarge ’s hands ceased to strike, and felt 
at her encircled waist. “ It is under my arm,” said Miss 
Pross, in smothered tones, “you shall not draw it. I am 
stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold you till one 
or other of us faints or dies ! ” 

Madame Defarge’s hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross 
looked up, saw what it was, struck at it, struck out a flash 
and a crash, and stood alone — blinded with smoke. 

All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an 
awful stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the 
furious woman whose body lay lifeless on the ground. 

In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross 
passed the body as far from it as she could, and ran down the 
stairs to call for fruitless help. Happily, she bethought 
herself of the consequences of what she did, in time to check 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


395 


herself and go back. It was dreadful to go in at the door 
again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to get the 
bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she 
put on, out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the 
door and taking away the key. She then sat down on the 
stairs a few moments to breathe and to cry, and then got up 
and hurried away. 

By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could 
hardly have gone along the streets without being stopped. 
By good fortune, too, she was naturally so peculiar in appear- 
ance as not to show disfigurement like any other woman. 
She needed both advantages, for the marks of griping fingers 
were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her dress 
(hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and 
dragged a hundred ways. 

In crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the 
river. Arriving at the cathedral some few minutes before 
her escort, and waiting there, she thought, what if the key 
were already taken in a net, what if it were identified, what 
if the door were opened 'and the remains discovered, what 
if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and charged 
with murder ! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the 
escort appeared, took her in, and took her away. 

“Is there any noise in the streets?” she asked him. 

“The usual noises,” Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked 
surprised by the question and by her aspect. 

“ I don’t hear you,” said Miss Pross. “ What do you say ?” 

It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; 
Miss Pross could not hear him. “So I’ll nod my head,” 
thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, “at all events she’ll see that.” 
And she did. 

“ Is there any noise in the streets now?” asked Miss Pross 
again, presently. 

Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head. 

“I don’t hear it.” 

“Gone deaf in an hour?” said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, 
with his mind much disturbed; “wot’s come to her?” 


396 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


“1 feel,” said Miss Pross, “as if there had been a flash 
and a crash, and that crash was the last thing I should ever 
hear in this life.” 

“ Blest if she ain't in a queer condition ! ” said Mr. Cruncher, 
more and more disturbed. “Wot can she have been a takin', 
to keep her courage up ? Hark ! There's the roll of them 
dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss?” 

“I can hear,” said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, 
“ nothing. 0, my good man, there was first a great crash, and 
then a great stillness, and that stillness seems to be fixed 
and unchangeable, never to be broken any more as long as 
my life lasts.” 

“If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now 
very nigh their journey’s end,” said Mr. Cruncher, glancing 
over his shoulder, “it's my opinion that indeed she never 
will hear anything else in this world.” 

And indeed she never did. 


CHAPTER XV 

THE FOOTSTEPS DIE OUT FOR EVER 

Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow 
and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day’s wine to La Guillo- 
tine. All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined 
since imagination could record itself, are fused in the one 
realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in France, with 
its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a 
sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under 
conditions more certain than those that have produced this 
horror. Crush humanity out of shape once more, under 
similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tor- 
tured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious license and 
oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same 
fruit according to its kind. 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


397 


Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back 
again to what they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, 
and they shall be seen to be the carriages of absolute monarchs, 
the equipages of feudal nobles, the toilettes of flaring Jezebels, 
the churches that are not my father’s house but dens of 
thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants ! No ; 
the great magician who majestically works out the appointed 
order of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. “If 
thou be changed into this shape by the will of God,” say the 
seers to the enchanted, in the wise Arabian stories, “then 
remain so ! But, if thou wear this form through mere passing 
conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!” Changeless 
and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along. 

As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem 
to plough up a long crooked furrow among the populace in 
the streets. Ridges of faces are thrown to this side and to 
that, and the ploughs go steadily onward. So used are the 
regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that in 
many windows there are no people, and in some the occupa- 
tion of the hands is not - so much as suspended, while the 
eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils. Here and there, 
the inmate has visitors to see the sight ; then he points his 
finger, with something of the complacency of a curator or 
authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems 
to tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before. 

Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and 
all things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare ; 
others, with a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. 
Some, seated with drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair ; 
again, there are some so heedful of their looks that they cast 
upon the multitude such glances as they have seen in theatres, 
and in pictures. Several close their eyes, and think, or try 
to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and he 
a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered 
and made drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. 
Not one of the whole number appeals by look or gesture, to 
the pity of the people. 


398 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the 
tumbrils, and fac6s are often turned up to some of them, and 
they are asked some question. It would seem to be always 
the same question, for, it is always followed by a press of 
people towards the third cart. The horsemen abreast of 
that cart, frequently point out one man in it with their 
swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; 
he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, 
to converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, 
and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the 
scene about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and 
there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised against 
him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he 
shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He 
cannot easily touch his face, his arms being bound. 

On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the 
tumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into 
the first of them : not there. He looks into the second : 
not there. He already asks himself, “ Has he sacrificed me ? ” 
when his face clears, as he looks into the third. 

“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him. 

‘ ‘ That . At the back there . ’ ’ 

“With his hand in the girl’s ?” 

“Yes.” 

The man cries, “Down, Evremonde ! To the Guillotine 
all aristocrats! Down, Evremonde!” 

“Hush, hush !” the Spy entreats him, timidly. 

“And why not, citizen?” 

“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five 
minutes more. Let him be at peace.” 

But the man continuing to exclaim, “ Down, Evremonde ! ” 
the face of Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. 
Evremonde then sees the Spy, and looks attentively at him, 
and goes his way. 

The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow 
ploughed among the populace is turning round, to come on 
into the place of execution, and end. The ridges thrown to 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


399 


this side and to that, now crumble in and close behind the 
last plough as it passes on, for all are following to the Guillo- 
tine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of public 
diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one 
of the foremost chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about 
for her friend. 

“Therese !” she cries, in her shrill tones. “ Who has seen 
her? Therese Defarge !” 

“She never missed before,” says a knitting- woman of the 
sisterhood. 

“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance, 
petulantly. “Therese.” 

“Louder,” the woman recommends. 

Ay ! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will 
scarcely hear thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little 
oath or so added, and yet it will hardly bring her. Send 
other women up and down to seek her, lingering somewhere ; 
and yet, although the messengers have done dread deeds, it 
is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far 
enough to find her ! 

“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot 
in the chair, “and here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde 
will be despatched in a wink, and she not here ! See her 
knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for her. I 
cry with vexation and disappointment ! ” 

As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, 
the tumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The ministers 
of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash ! — A head 
is held up, and the knitting-women who scarcely lifted their 
eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and speak, 
count One. 

The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third 
comes up. Crash ! — And the knitting-women, never falter- 
ing or pausing in their work, count Two. 

The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress 
is lifted out next after him. He has not relinquished her 
patient hand in getting out, but still holds it as he promised. 


400 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


He gently places her with her back to the crashing engine 
that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into his 
face and thanks him. 

“ But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, 
for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor 
should I have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who 
was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here 
to-day. I think you were sent to me by Heaven.” 

“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes 
upon me, dear child, and mind no other object.” 

“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind 
nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid.” 

“They will be rapid. Fear not!” 

The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but 
they speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, 
hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children of the 
Universal Mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come 
together on the dark highway, to repair home together, and 
to rest in her bosom. 

“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one 
last question ? I am very ignorant, and it troubles me — 
just a little.” 

“Tell me what it is.” 

“ I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like 
myself, whom I love very dearly. She is five years younger 
than I, and she lives in a farmer’s house in the south country. 
Poverty parted us, and she knows nothing of my fate — for 
I cannot write — and if I could, how should I tell her ! It is 
better as it is.” 

“Yes, yes: better as it is.” 

“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what 
I am still thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face 
which gives me so much support, is this : — If the Republic 
really does good to the poor, and they come to be less hungry, 
and in all ways to suffer less, she may live a long time : she 
may even live to be old.” 

“What then, my gentle sister?” 


A TALE OF TWO CITIES 


401 


“Do you think:” the uncomplaining eyes in which there 
is so much endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little 
more and tremble: “that it will seem long to me, while I 
wait for her in the better land where I trust both you and I 
will be mercifully sheltered?” 

“It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no 
trouble there.” 

“ You comfort me so much ! I am so ignorant. Am I to 
kiss you now? Is the moment come?” 

“Yes.” 

She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless 
each other. The spare hand does not tremble as he releases 
it; nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy is in the 
patient face. She goes next before him — is gone ; the knit- 
ting-women count Twenty-Two. 

“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he 
that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live : 
and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.” 

The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many 
faces, the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts of 
the crowd, so that it swells forward in a mass, like one great 
heave of water, all flashes away. Twenty-Three. 


They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the 
peacefulest man’s face ever beheld there. Many added that 
he looked sublime and prophetic. 

One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe — a 
woman — had asked at the foot of the same scaffold, not long 
before, to be allowed to write down the thoughts that were 
inspiring her. If he had given any utterance to his, and they 
were prophetic, they would have been these : 

“I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the 
Juryman, the Judge \ long ranks of the new oppressors who 
have risen on the destruction of the old, perishing by this 
retributive instrument, before it shall cease out of its present 
use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from 
this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their 


402 


A TALE OE TWO CITIES 


triumphs and defeats, through long long years to come, I 
see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which 
this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself 
and wearing out. 

“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, use- 
ful, prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see 
no more. I see Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears 
my name. I see her father, aged and bent, but otherwise 
restored, and faithful to all men in his healing office, and at 
peace. I see the good old man, so long their friend, in ten 
years’ time enriching them with all he has, and passing tran- 
quilly to his reward. 

“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the 
hearts of their descendants, generations hence. I see her, 
an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of this day. 
I see her and her husband, their course done, lying side by 
side in their last earthly bed, and I know that each was not 
more honoured and held sacred in the other’s soul, than I 
was in the souls of both. 

“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore 
my name, a man winning his way up in that path of life which 
once was mine. I see him winning it so well, that my name 
is made illustrious there by the light of his. I see the blots 
I threw upon it, faded away. I see him, foremost of just 
judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name, with 
a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place — then 
fair to look upon, with not a trace of this day’s disfigurement 
— and I hear him tell the child my story, with a tender and a 
faltering voice. 

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever 
done ; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever 
known.” 


NOTES 


BOOK THE FIRST 

CHAPTER I 

In this first chapter Dickens aims to sketch the social and politi- 
cal conditions of England and France in 1775, as a background for 
his story. His description is lacking in simplicity. It is indirect 
in its manner, and full of obscure allusions, so that the picture left 
on the reader’s mind is somewhat vague. 

3 : 1. It, etc. The period of the French Revolution. The novel- 
ist is thinking, in this sentence, of the sharp social contrasts and 
political inconsistencies of the Revolution. 

3 : 15. There were ... on the throne of England, etc. George 
III and Charlotte Sophia, king and queen of England ; Louis XVI 
and Marie Antoinette, king and queen of France. 

3 : 21. Mrs. Southcott. A religious fanatic claiming divine 
inspiration. 

4 : 2. The Cock-lane ghost. A notorious spiritualistic impos- 
ture. Fraudulent “.table-rapping” at a house in Cock-lane, 
Smithfield, London, deceived many people for a long time. 

4 : 12. Her sister of the shield and trident. In England’s 
coat-of-arms, Britannia is always represented as bearing a shield 
and a trident, emblematic of maritime supremacy. 

4 : 20. Sentencing a youth . . . sixty yards. Such an execu- 
tion actually took place at this time ; but the offence was greater 
than Dickens indicates. In the immediate presence of a religious 
ceremony, the offending youth made blasphemous speeches and 

403 


404 


NOTES 


[Book I 


gestures, and sang sacrilegious songs. Dickens dwarfs the offence 
to emphasize his point. 

4 : 25. A certain movable framev/ork . . . terrible in history. 

The guillotine, a machine for beheading people. 

5 : 20. St. Giles’s. A district of London inhabited by the low- 
est classes. 


CHAPTER II 

In this chapter note the skilful way in which Dickens creates an 
atmosphere of mystery and danger. The interest and expectation 
thus aroused are intensified by the message brought by Jerry, and 
its startling answer. 

6 : 9. Shooter’s Hill. A hill about eight miles southeast from 
the limits of old London. 

6 : 17. Blackheath. A stretch of open country just outside of 
London, on the Dover road. 

8 : 30. In the king’s name, all of you ! The guard calls upon 
the passengers to show their honesty and loyalty by aiding in the 
defence of the mails. 

12 : 9. If recalling to life was to come into fashion, Jerry ! 

Jerry, as Dickens tells us later, is a body-snatcher. 

CHAPTER III 

This chapter adds nothing to the movement of the story ; but it 
helps to increase the reader’s feeling of mystery and expectation. 


CHAPTER IV 

In this chapter we are introduced to the heroine. Note carefully 
her appearance, and her personal characteristics as they are re- 
vealed in the story. Does the description of her looks given in 
this chapter leave a definite and vivid picture in your mind ? 


Book II] 


NOTES 


405 


17 : 23. Show Concord ! At that period the rooms of an inn 
were named, instead of being numbered as they are to-day. 

20 : 14. Nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamp- 
lighter. Veiled allusions to smuggling and smugglers. 

25 : 2. Mangle. A machine for smoothing linen by roller pressure. 
Mr. Lorry simply means to illustrate the mechanical, impersonal 
nature of his business. 

28 : 21. Grenadier wooden measure. Perhaps an allusion to the 
large bucket-shaped bearskin hats of the Grenadier Guards. 

CHAPTER V 

A powerful chapter, marked by great vividness of description 
and artistic handling of mystery and omen. 

31 : 11. Saint Antoine. A wretched and vicious district of 
Paris, between the Bastille and the Seine. 

35 : 23. Jacques. This name was the password of a mysterious 
secret society which some authorities believe to have organized the 
French Revolution. 

CHAPTER VI 

In this chapter Dickens begins to throw light on some of the 
mysteries with which he has aroused the interest of the reader ; at 
the same time he prepares the way for events which are to follow. 


BOOK THE SECOND 

CHAPTER I 

54 : 1. Temple Bar. A famous ancient gateway before the 
Temple, originally in the western wall of old London, separating 
Fleet Street from the Strand. Here were formerly exposed, as a 
public warning, the heads or limbs of executed traitors. 

57 : 1. Whitefriars. A London district near the Temple, ex- 


406 


NOTES 


[Book II 


tending from Fleet Street to the Thames. It once possessed privi- 
leges of sanctuary and hence had become the resort of various 
malefactors. 

57 : 17. Harlequin. A favorite clown character in pantomimes, 
always gayly dressed in a costume of many colors. 

57 : 36. Aggerawayter. Mr. Cruncher mispronounces the word 
“ aggravates ” which he uses in the sense of “one who annoys.” 
His irritability in the presence of his wife’s piety indicates a guilty 
conscience. 


CHAPTER II 

This chapter introduces the two heroes of the book, Charles 
Darnay, the conventional centre of sentimental interest, and 
Sydney Carton, the great character for whom the book is famous, 
and who is quietly introduced as “ another wigged gentleman with 
his hands in his pockets whose whole attention seemed to be con- 
centrated on the ceiling.” It is only gradually that Carton de- 
velops into one of the prominent figures in the story. The reader 
should note carefully the traits in his character as they are un- 
folded by the author. 

61 : 6. Old Bailey. The principal English criminal court, near 
Newgate prison. 

62 : 8. Quartering. The body of a man executed for treason 
was cut into quarters, and then the parts were distributed for ex- 
hibition in various cities as a warning to other evildoers. 

62 : 28. Tyburn. The place of public execution, named from a 
small tributary to the Thames, and near what is now Hyde Park. 

62 : 29. Newgate. Executions were transferred to Newgate in 
1783. It was formerly the fifth gate in the original Roman wall 
of London. 

63 : 24. Bedlam. Famous English insane asylum ; formerly 
one of the “sights” of London, with regular admission-fee for 
visitors. 


Book II] 


NOTES 


407 


CHAPTER IV 

Twice in this chapter Dickens hints at a tragic future for Carton 
in his relations with Darnay. 

83 : 20. Bastille. The most noted and infamous of French 
state prisons, four hundred years old at this period. See Chapter 
XXI. 

86 : 22. Chair there ! The usual call for a sedan chair, an 
enclosed seat supported on poles by two bearers ; it was the cab of 
the period. Note, in the last paragraph but one of this chapter, 
another instance of Dickens’s method of arousing interest by 
mysterious prophetic suggestion. 


CHAPTER V 

After reading this chapter, consider why Dickens gave it the 
title that he did. 

90 : 10. Sessions. The regular meetings of English law-courts, 
usually criminal courts. 

90 : 32. Hilary Term and Michaelmas. Two of the four three- 
week terms during which English law-courts held sessions. 

91 : 26. Jeffries. A notoriously cruel and profligate English 
Chief Justice, who died a hundred years before this period. 


CHAPTER VI 

Observe, in this chapter, Dickens’s further use of the device of 
mysterious suggestion to arouse the reader’s interest. 

96 : 10. Soho-square. The residence of the foreign element, 
just inside of Oxford Road, then the city-limit. 

96 : 14. Clerkenwell. Residence district near the centre of 
modern London ; then, an outlying suburb. 


408 


NOTES 


[Book II 


CHAPTER YII 

This chapter is vague and in parts obscure, at the first reading. 
Young readers are likely to think it an interruption to the narrative, 
for Defarge and his wife are apparently the only connecting links 
between it and the preceding parts of the story. It is the first of 
a number of chapters dealing with the Marquis, or, as he is called 
hereafter, Monseigneur (see following note), and his country home. 
It is really closely related to the rest of the story, as will appear 
in the sequel. Notice Dickens’s frequent recurrence to the mys- 
terious knitting of Madame Defarge. 

109 : 22. Monseigneur. Here, the personification of the Trench 
aristocracy ; later, the title of an individual. 

110 : 28. Stuart who sold it. Charles II of England secretly 
sold, to Louis XIV of France, his formal allegiance and submission, 
in order to procure money for his extravagant licentiousness. 

111 : 4. Farmer-General. A revenue officer who bought from 
the Government the privilege of collecting the taxes of a district ; 
the taxes were said to be “ farmed out ” to him. Everything over 
and above the stipulated amount of the taxes went into his own 
pocket. 

Ill : 11. Cheapest garment she could wear. Because, in the 
convent, her support cost nothing, and her portion reverted to the 
estate. 

113 : 10. Convulsionists. A fanatical sect called Jansenists, 
religious rather than political, of a slightly earlier period ; intro- 
duced by Dickens to make his picture more vivid. 

113 : 37. Saint Antoine. A personification of the suburb. See 
note 31 : 11. 

114 : 4. Tuileries. A former royal residence in Paris, west of 
the Louvre and north of the Seine. 

114 : 10. Wheel. An engine of torture and death which mangled 
its victims cruelly, breaking in two places their legs and arms. 


Book II] 


NOTES 


409 


114 : 11. Monsieur Paris. Cant name for the hangman or 
executioner. 


CHAPTER VIII 


119 : 9. Monseigneur in the Country. This chapter is the con- 
necting link between the injury, p. 116, and its avenging, Chap- 
ter IX. The bereaved father, the “tall man,” rides into the 
country, hanging to the chains beneath the coach of his intended 
victim. The Marquis is hereafter called Monseigneur. 


CHAPTER IX 

This chapter discloses Darnay’s identity and at the same time 
heightens the mystery suggested at the trial in London. The chap- 
ter completes our knowledge of the main characters in the story. 

129 ; 3. Letter de cachet. A “ sealed letter,” then much used 
to mean, and to convey, an arbitrary order of imprisonment. 

137 : 6. Ballad of Leonora. In the ballad a maiden mourning 
for her lover, gone on a crusade, is aroused at night and called upon 
to ride away behind what appears to be her lover but is really 
“ a ghastly skeleton.” 

CHAPTER XI 

In this chapter the attractive traits of Sydney Carton begin to 
appear. Up to this time the reader’s opinion of Carton has prob- 
ably not been very favorable. 

CHAPTER XII 

151 : 3. C. J. Chief Justice. 

151 : 7. Vauxhall Gardens. A celebrated London pleasure re- 
sort. Ranelagh. Another popular resort, famous, like the above, 
for extravagant masquerades and entertainments. 


410 


NOTES 


[Book II 


151 : 14. St. Dunstan’s side of Temple Bar. The Fleet Street, 
or city, side. St. Dunstan’s church was just east of Temple Bar. 


CHAPTER XIII 


At the close of this chapter Dickens hints at the solution of the 
entanglements which follow. 


CHAPTER XIV 


163 : 17. Heathen rustic who . . . has been . . . watching 
one stream. An old American Indian legend tells of a half-witted 
member of the tribe who spent his life in watching a river, waiting 
for the water to run by. Perhaps Dickens refers to this legend, or 
to one of its many cognates in other lands and languages. 



CHAPTER XV 


177 : 32. By his tall figure. Of course, this is the tall man of 
pages 116 and 122. 

181 : 20. Damiens. The offence, execution, and name of the 
man are historically accurate, as here described. 


CHAPTER XVI 


In this chapter the interlacing of various plots becomes apparent; 
and we begin to understand the relation which certain incidents in 
early chapters bear to the main story. 

190 : 19. Jacquerie. Jacques, or Jacques Bonhomme, is the 
nickname of the French peasant, as John Bull is of the English ; 
hence “the Jacquerie” stands for the French peasantry, particu- 
larly ns opposed to the nobility. 


Book III] 


NOTES 


411 


CHAPTER XXI 

226 : 30. Mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty- 
nine. The Bastille was stormed, very nearly as described in this 
chapter, on the 14th of July, 1789. 

CHAPTER XXII 

236 : 29. Foulon. A peculiarly inefficient controller-general of 
finances, particularly inconsiderate of popular sufferings. All the 
incidents here related are historical. 

CHAPTER XXIII 

Consider whether you think that Darnay’s abandonment of his 
estate was justifiable. 

CHAPTER XXIV 

249 : 1. Loadstone Rock. A mythical rock that drew ships to 
itself, fatally, by magnetic attraction of their iron bolts, bands, etc. 

250 : 2. Last tidings. The palace of the Tuileries was stormed 
August 10, and the monarchy formally abolished September 21, 
1792. 

256 : 21. The Abbaye. A Parisian military prison. One hun- 
dred and sixty-four prisoners were murdered here during the Sep- 
tember Massacre of 1792. 

BOOK THE THIRD 

CHAPTER I 

This and the following chapters present a picture of the cruelty 
and injustice attending the French Revolution. It is interesting to 
compare Carlyle’s description of the same events in his French 
Revolution. 


412 


NOTES 


[Book III 


268 : 14. La Force. Another Parisian prison, originally the 
chateau of the dukes of La Force. Many prisoners were murdered 
here in the September Massacre. 

CHAPTER II 

275 : 24. Gazette. The official bulletin published by the British 
Government, containing state and legal notices, including an- 
nouncements of bankruptcy, etc. 

275 : 31. Lombard-street. London’s “ Wall Street,” or finan- 
cial centre. 


CHAPTER V 

299 : 1 . Conciergerie. The old prison of the Palais de J ustice. 
Three hundred and twenty-eight victims perished here in the Sep- 
tember Massacre. 

CHAPTER VII 

310 : 9. Confound their politics, etc. The “ maxim ” is a direct 
quotation from the British National Anthem. 


CHAPTER IX 

335 : 6. I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. 

John xi. 25, 26. This is also a part of the Burial Service, in the 
Book of Common Prayer. 


CHAPTER XI 

358 : 32. She heard him say, “A life you love.” See page 
163, line 2. 


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